The Outcome of Chance
by Idojgrrl
Summary: When war takes her parents, a young mage looks for a magic strong enough to protect her from the uncertainty of the future. But is anger the best weapon or solitude the best defense? Well, yes, don't you think? Comments and suggestions are welcome, tell me what's wrong with it so I can make it better!
1. Chapter 1

There was nothing special about the night. It was quiet, mild. Only a small breeze moved the gauzy curtains that decorated the tall windows. The stillness was broken by the rhythmic tapping of polished fingernails on an enameled table top. The elegant elf clacked her fingers repetitively as she considered the girl who stood before her. Cercee's gaze had long since gone past the headmistress. Her eyes were directed at her instructor, but her focus was obviously elsewhere. The girls' features were taught, not at all the features of a youth. She did not look older than her years, only angrier. The headmistress sighed.

"Cercee," she finally said, over loud as to draw the girl back to the present. She watched as her gaze pulled back into focus, but not in the way a reprimanded child is startled back to attention. It was slow and practiced, as a broken meditation that must be let come to an end on its own. Cercee took a deep breath as her consciousness settled back into the room. Her attentive gaze was far colder than her far off stare.

"Yes, headmistress?" her voice was just as cold and just as far off.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes, and I was formulating a response," the girl replied quietly, almost as if she was irritated at having the thought interrupted.

The headmistress raised an eyebrow. "Most students do not hesitate when they are asked if they wish to continue at the Arcanum."

"I am not most students," she said simply.

"No," the headmistress admitted as she stood, "I suppose you wouldn't think so."

The girl's eyes flared slightly and her head cocked to one side a little. Otherwise she stood stone still as she watched the headmistress walk to the large open window.

"Your instructors do not feel you are giving them your full attention," the headmistress continued.

"They are wrong," Cercee interjected.

The headmistress turned. She demanded an explanation by raising both eyebrows.

The student sighed. "They are mistaken," she amended. "I am learning a great deal from their tutelage."

"Even so," she continued, "I believe you should examine what it is you want and what you are willing to put into your studies," she almost added an ultimatum, but decided against it, "You may go," she concluded instead.

Cercee stood for a brief moment, looking hard at the Headmistress. Then she bowed slightly and left the room, a wave of dis-ease flowing in her wake.

* * *

><p>The headmistress stared at Cercee's back as she swept off down the corridor. She rose and left her chamber and strode on soft feet down a different hall and through another set of over tall double doors trimmed in gold and ivory. With a wave of her hand, she sent a magical herald ahead of her to announce her arrival. To simply barge in wouldn't be suitable, regardless of the reason. When she stopped at the anti-chamber to Magister Thaxeus's study, he was already prepared for her arrival.<p>

"Thaxeus," she said politely.

"Madame," he inclined his head and smiled, "Won't you please have a seat."

She gave a brief curtsy and took a seat on a large settee.

He leaned on the arm of his chair and asked, "What brings you here so urgently?"

"I am that transparent?" she asked.

"No, but you are rarely this abrupt," he said.

She nodded. "You know Miss Morningray?"

"I have met her," he nodded.

"You knew her parents, yes?" she asked.

"Bailas," he said with a tone appropriate for the deceased. "Yes. Her mother not as well."

The Headmistress leaned back, "I am concerned for her. I was hoping perhaps you would look in on her, as an acquaintance of the family, perhaps you can guide her out of this malaise."

Thaxeus nodded. "I will as you have asked," he said. "She is back so soon?"

The Headmistress nodded. "I advised that she might take more time, but she insisted that she was quite capable of continuing."

"And you think she is not?"

"Her instructors insist she is distracted."

"Well, loosing both parents at once...no one would blame her for being overwrought," he said, crossing from his seat to a small table. He lifted a bottle and a glass to the Headmistress, who nodded.

"That is what concerns them," she explained as she poured, "she does not seem mournful at all." he handed her a glass and retook his own seat. "Only angry."

"That's normal as well," he said.

She nodded as she sipped, then said, "Yes, and she needs to understand that."

He sipped his own wine and thought it over. "Well, I can certainly speak to her. Grief works its own way, though, I am not sure it best that we interfere."

"Anger in a young talent is dangerous. Justified anger even more so."

"Ah, I see. You think she is a bit her father's daughter," he said.

"I think anyone in a position to take action considers it," she said. "I did not know Bailas well, although I understand he had a considerable temper. I'm more concerned that she go off looking for revenge or some kind of personal satisfaction."

Thaxeus scoffed at the idea. "That's juvenile," he said, dismissing the idea outright. "The Arcanum's students aren't meat headed oafs. Give your own pupils more credit than that." He folded his arms and leaned away from her, professionally insulted by the idea.

They sat for a moment, finishing the wine.

"You will speak to her and see if there is any reason for concern," she said.

"I will," he obliged politely.

"Thank you Thaxeus," she said as she stood. He rose as well. "I appreciate your assistance."

He bowed as he took back the glass. "Of course, madame," he smiled. She spun gracefully and retreated back down the hall to her own chambers, satisfied that a positive step had been taken.

* * *

><p>There was little activity in the courtyard as Cercee hurried past the floating planters and ever vigilant enchanted brooms to the smaller building the students resided in. Her face was flush with anger and indignation. She was a fantastic student. She was quite attentive. She absorbed everything they taught. She read between the lines to learn what they did not teach. She slid into her room and closed the door. She furrowed her brow and took a deep breath. She didn't need the headmistresses concern. She had already decided the school was not the place for her. Their magic was not what she wished to master. The arcane was, well, old. It was past. It did not meet the challenges the new world faced. Too agitated to sleep, Cercee pulled a worn trunk from under her bed. Moving asides several textbooks, she finally came to the one she was looking for. It was small, leather bound, discolored and slightly water stained. Flipping the handwritten pages, she came to the page she was looking for. She had read it many times before, especially in the past several weeks.<p>

Her father's notes were very specific. She could count on him for that, at least. Meticulous accuracy. Even though he would never have discussed it with her while he was alive, she had found in his notes record of his 'experimental phase'. A time in his young life when he thought he knew better than his instructors and mentors and was sure he was far more powerful than he actually was. Talented young mages are prone to such, if they are not taught proper discipline. She had been told that many times as a child. Her parents had insisted on proper discipline. It didn't take much digging to understand why that was. Her father had fallen prey to that temptation in his early education. He would not tell her what he had done, only that the promises of deeper power off the path of the arcane was a lie, false, weak and unpredictable. And it might have been left at that, had her mother not sent with her to the Arcanum a box of texts she thought would give her daughter an advantage in her education. Most of them, while interesting and advanced, were, to Cercee, nothing overly exciting. Until she reached the bottom of the trunk and discovered her father's notebooks. Covered and forgotten, they chronicled his own experiments outside of his accepted work. At first, she read about his attempts to reach beyond his learning, with mixed success. He sharply amended his attempts and corrected his errors. She had been impressed, it had given her great insight and new respect for him. It explained how he was able to rise so quickly, become so powerful. It certainly explained why her mother had been so attracted to him. She was shocked when he started taking a darker turn, asking questions she was vehemently discouraged from asking. He began experimenting with dark arts, forbidden lore. It interested him in much the same way it interested her, wondering why it had been shunned. So she delved with, at first great interest, and then with grave regret. Her father's interest turned from curiosity to greed. She could tell by the way he wrote. And she could tell why he failed. She had poured over his failures and realized what had happened. He was too proud. He was too conceited to realize when to bend. He was too rigid to allow a greater power to amend his point of view. It was what allowed him to give up on a stronger path, and eventually led to his death. Cercee re-read the first notations on summoning fel energy as she thought about this; her father's failure, her parents recent deaths. She would not make the same mistakes. When dawn rose over the shimmering city and the glorious golden spires of the Arcanum, Cercee sat triumphant in her darkened room, sweat pouring down her face and a row of dead rats along her bedroom wall. She had achieved the first spell laid out in her father's notes, and without burning her own essence, as he reportedly had. Elation beamed from her face as the energy swelled into her. She could only manage to focus enough to down the rats, but even so, it was a start. She put her father's notes away, fed the dead rats to the cats that constantly prowled the courtyards outside her window and washed her face and changed her clothes. Renewed, and with a new sense of personal pride, she went to meet her class for breakfast.

As with each morning for weeks, the other student hushed when she came into their presence. Their eyes followed her quietly and she approached them, which was less and less, they fell quiet and greeted her with awkward smiles. She detested pity. Their concerns were misdirected. She slowed her pace, watching the gaggle of them as they moved in a group toward the grand arch of the main hall. She furrowed her brow. The thought of their company soured her stomach. Perhaps, she decided, she would breakfast elsewhere this morning. The city was brilliant in the morning. Sunlight fell on the golden trim of every arch and door, every winding stair. White marble rose as if it had grown there naturally. Cercee walked from the Arcanum to a little residential quarter where she knew most of the school menials lived. Even here, the streets were clean and the walls bright and gleaming in the sun. And the shadows, she noticed the shadows, in contrast seemed darker and crisper. She slowed her pace to study them. A broom swept past her. She shook her head as she watched it sweep into the darkness and disappear down the alley. Her musings thus broken, she continued to the bakery around the corner. It was not unusual for students to frequent the little shop and so the baker smiled at her as she entered.

"Not interested in the normal gruel?" he asked.

Cercee grinned in spite of herself. "It isn't that bad," she said, taking in the counter and all it had to offer.

"Of course it is," he said with exaggerated disgust, "my brother is one of your cooks." He waved a hand in front of his face and grabbed his stomach as if he were in pain.

Cercee laughed outright.

"What can I get for you?" he asked.

"I just wanted something different," she said.

"Something different," he mused. "Different from what you have everyday or different than anyone around here could get you."

The phrase struck her and her bright green eyes widened slightly. "Different than anyone around here can get me," she said.

"Well then," he said, pleased that his pastry could elicit such a response, "I'll be right back."

Cercee barely heard him. That was what she wanted, what they needed. What her parents had neglected.

A more purposeful intent rode on Cercee's stride as she walked back to the school. Doubt had been banished from her mind. She was almost cheerful as she skipped up the long flight of steps to the main hall. The other students nearly gasped when she smiled at them as she slid into her seat. With new vigilance and resolve she animated her quill and prepared to give her instructor absolute attention. Her instructors took notice. Pleased that their concerns had been taken to heart and not without some measure of compassion for her current situation, they continued on. That day flew by, and the night was equally instructive, following her father's notes and practicing the most basic spells that engaged fel energy. Exhausted but elated, she finished her self instruction, cleaned her room, bathed quickly and went once more to the baker's.

"Back again?" the cheery baker chimed when he saw her.

"Have you any more?" she asked quickly.

"No, I'm sorry, not of the same you had yesterday," he saw the very slight frown that pulled at the corners of her mouth. "But perhaps I can find something you will like." He disappeared for a few moments and reemerged dramatically with a small purple cake delicately topped with flower pedals.

"That's lovely," she said.

"Thank you, m'lady," he bowed grandly and smiled. "Now, do be mindful," he cautioned, "those little pedals make this an excellent breakfast cake, so if you intend to go back to bed, save the cake for later."

"I have class," she said examining the cake.

"Perfect ," he said. "let me know how it goes." And she paid for her cake and left for class.

* * *

><p>Thaxeus watched the younger students enter the halls from the balcony of his chamber. He would have few, if any of these aspirants as his own students. Most would quit or be deemed unworthy by then. A few would pass on, then find positions in noble houses, but rarely did anyone attain a level of mastery that he himself would take an interest in. Bailas Morningray had, and he had been the last. The deaths of Bailas, his wife and the other magi who had left Quell'Thallas to defend against the Horde were a shock. Secretly, no one had expected the Horde's brutish magics to have anything even half as potent as the Arcanum's contribution to the conflict. They were still looking into the matter, to find out what had really happened. Thaxeus himself was sure an ambush had been laid, treachery of some kind. No one, he felt sure, could have taken the magi had they been prepared. He watched another group of students, older, more relaxed, begin to form near the gates. He did not see Bailas's daughter's red hair bobbing among them. Not that she ever bobbed, exactly. That might imply she had any kind of a jovial bone in her body.<p>

Too much her father's daughter for that, he thought. All business, that one.

He did finally see her, walking alone behind the others. His heart went out to her. The war had made many orphans, but the Morningray family was small. She had no siblings, her father had been all business as well, apparently, and as far as he knew there was only a few extended family on the mother's side in Quel'Danas. She was likely lonely in her grief. He watched her as she fell farther behind the others until she stopped entirely, looked down a side ally and went off down a fork in the other direction.

He frowned. He watched her until the buildings obscured his view and then left the balcony. He wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and decided a walk might do him some good as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Thaxeus browsed the pastry counter with the same discerning eye with which he appraised fine antiquities. He inspected each, but gave very little indication of his actual evaluation of the cakes. The baker watched him and waited patiently.

"The children seem to like your wares," he said.

The baker smiled. "Doesn't everyone enjoy sweets?" he asked. "Can I interest you in something, Master?"

Thaxeus was quietly pleased that his position was recognized.

"Yes," he said, "What do the students like?"

The baker almost laughed out loud. "Sir?" he asked.

"You know," Thaxeus went on, "What do they purchase? Should I wish to gift them."

"Ah," the baker nodded, amused by the idea. "Well, it depends, really. Are you close to trials? At festival season they seem partial to the sweet breads, but closer to trials, they like the breakfast cakes. Of course, if its sweetests, well, anything pretty and flowery will do. Of course, some of the better off students will have the tea cakes regularly..."

"Better off?" Thaxeus asked.

"Yes sir," the baker grinned, "those that don't need to dine with their peers, if you get my meaning."

Thaxeus stiffened, "all of our students take meals in the halls."

The baker didn't bother to respond, he just leaned on the counter and stared at the magus, waiting for a real answer.

"Which tea cakes?" Thaxeus finally asked.

"If I may," the Baker reached under the glass, pulled out a tray and set it on the counter, "what generosity you show. I see students, but rarely do I see the Magi. Your pupils must adore you."

Thaxeus raised an eyebrow at the baker's tone. It was just flat enough that he might be sincere, but he doubted it.

"Will you be gifting them all or only a choice few?" the baker asked, a smile on his face.

"I think I shall only sample the one," he said, laying his coin on the table.

The baker held up a hand and refused the payment. "Complimentary. As you sample," he said, still smiling, "you will surely return."

The magus nodded a thank you and left, wondering if the pastries really where that good.

* * *

><p>Her daily studies and classes seemed to fly by. She hardly noticed the hours passing. She redoubled her efforts in her demonstrations, finding particular success in her offensive magics. The other students were shocked at the ferocity of her attacks, but the academics seemed pleased. For weeks this was her habit, breakfast at the bakers, hard press to her studies and a harder press to her personal interests at night. Sleep was a fleeting nap, if she could squeeze it in, somewhere around the mid day meal and perhaps before her evening practices. She was very discreet as well. There were rules about scrying on students in the baths or in the bed chambers, so this is where she went to conduct her personal endeavors. She would also, when time permitted, walk across the city to her parents home. They had retained a few servants, while they where alive, and she saw no reason to dismiss them as long as the house was being maintained. These people showed her due deference, but no pity. It was a genuine relief from the attitudes of those around her who seemed to think she needed some kind of intervention to deal with her loss. The servants had known her parents and knew that the best description for the family bond was functional. In many respects, it was as if nothing had changed. They kept the house, Cercee would occasionally come and take a few things from her room, make a brisk assessment of the state of the house, and return to the Arcanum. The visits where brief and irregular, so when the gardener told her she had a caller, she didn't bother to hide her surprise.<p>

"Who?" she asked flatly, not moving from the book shelf ladder where she was searching for a tome she was sure her father had set aside.

"Magister Thaxeus," the gardener said. "Where should I ask him to wait?"

Cercee's eyes got slightly wide and she cursed a little under her breath. She looked around the study. It was as good a place as any. She gathered her skirt in one hand and climbed back down.

"Show him here," she said as she descended. He nodded and bowed slightly as he left. Cercee frowned at the room. It was perfectly clean, but still, she did not like unexpected guests. She straitened her skirt and smoothed her hair and waited for her guest to be shown in.

It had been a very long time since Thaxeus had been in the Morningray home. He looked around the study.

"Much as I remember it," he said. His eyes came to rest on Cercee. He smiled a little. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home," he said.

Cercee bowed stiffly, "Of course. To what do I owe this unexpected honor."

Thaxeus took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs and indicated that she should do the same. She sat as stiffly as she bowed.

"I had not paid my proper respects," he offered.

"There is no need, Master Thaxeus, you attended the services for my parents remains," she tried to keep a pleasant tone to her voice, "You owe me nothing more."

"You're father was my apprentice for many years," he tried to read her face, but it was locked in an expression of professional courtesy. "I felt I owed it to him to see that you are well."

Cercee tilted her head to the side slightly. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I assure you I am quite fine."

Thaxeus frowned. "we did not expect you to return to your studies so soon. Perhaps you should consider..."

"I am perfectly capable of pursuing my studies," she said quite sharply.

He smiled, "Of course, I am sure you feel that way, but how does your family feel about the matter?"

Cercee blinked, genuinely surprised. "My family?"

"Yes your mother's relatives? Your grandfather?" he leaned toward her slightly.

"My mother's relatives are are artisans, master Thaxeus, I have nothing to gain by postponing my studies and staying with them. And I am sure my grandfather would agree," she still sat rigid with her hands in her lap.

"You spoke to him about this?"

"I did not, but as he is in service to the Sunstrider court, I am certain he has no time or desire to have me pouting about in his way," she said. "I am quite fine remaining at the Academy. I am sure he would agree"

Thaxeus leaned back in the chair, stroked his chin and stared at her.

"It was very kind of you to ask after me," she said.

Thaxeus rose from his chair. "Your father was quite accomplished," he said, walking to the bookshelf. Cercee rose and turned to watch him. "He amassed quite a collection, didn't he. I hadn't realized."

"They were both avid scholars and collectors," she frowned at his back.

"I see that," he ran a finger over the spine of a nearby book. Cercee felt unreasonably irritated by the simple act.

"I need to return to the Arcanum, sir," she said to his back. "I don't stay here."

"There is no rush," he said amiably, reading the cover of another book. He turned and smiled at her, "You can return with me, no one will bother that you might be late."

Cercee's frown deepened. "With all due respect, sir," she said diplomatically, "that does not seem fair to the others."

He looked up the wall one more time and then turned back to her.

"You are likely right," he smiled. "Allow me to escort you, and we can continue our chat."

Trapped between convention and inconvenience, Cercee smiled and accepted.

* * *

><p>"I think you may be correct," Thaxeus said to the headmistress when they sat down to share another glass of wine.<p>

"You spoke to her?"

He nodded, "I did. She seems committed to the idea of immersing herself in her study." He took a few sips. "I am inclined to say it is the best course of action."

"Do you?" she asked. "I'm not so certain."

"Better she be here, where we can keep an eye on her," he reasoned. "If you think she might attempt to take some sort of revenge, best keep her close to her books."

"I suppose you have a point," she said.

He nodded and sipped again. "I will keep an eye on her progress," he offered.

The headmistress nodded, "Thank you."

"Not at all," Thaxeus said. "It is the least I can do."

* * *

><p>There was a particular relaxation to taking extra time in the baths. Like the rest of the architecture of the Arcanum, the baths where grand. Arched ceilings and high open windows with gauzy curtains. Marble floors dipped into a deep pool that was filled by never empty decanters pouring warm water into the pool from above. A few coins passed to the attendant assured her privacy for a reasonable amount of time. Cercee could walk from the ankle deep water near the benches where bathers could leave their clothes and wade until she had to tread water. It was a perfect place to practice her more subtle spells. She found several variations on a protection spell. It was, of course, almost impossible to tell if those spells worked without asking someone to cast a spell at her. She was lazily swimming circles in the deepest part of the pool when she was struck by a way to test two of the protective spells at once. She waded back to the edge of the water and muttered the first armor spell. If she understood the notes correctly, it should provide her with an extra resistance should the second spell fail. Her father's notes went into great detail about a spell called unending breath. He noted it was tremendously useful for surviving detrimental environments by allowing him to breathe what should be unbreathable. She thought as she read the notes that he probably wished he had not given it up as he burned to death fighting the Horde's demon minions. This was not on her mind as she stood dripping at the edge of the pool. She took a calming breath, cast the spell, breathed again, and dove into the water.<p>

She settled herself on the bottom of the pool and slowly, calmly started to let out her breath in tiny bubbles. She counted as she did. Little fizzy bubbles started to form on her skin as she sat. Seven, eight, nine...she opened her eyes and watched the light dance in the water around her. Twelve, thirteen...more people should enjoy underwater, she thought, it was incredibly quiet and calm.

Twenty, twenty one...she was coming to the end of her natural breath. She let out the last of her air in one glub. She sat for a few very long seconds, unsure what to do. The blood was starting to pound in her temples and her body wanted to take in a breath. She started to pull water into her nose without realizing it. It was the oddest sensation.

Cercee had seen potions that allowed the imbiber to breath under water. They were horrible smelling thick vile extractions of some water weed. They took effect by ripping gills in the neck from the inside. Effective, but unpleasant. This was different. she felt the water fill her lungs, she pushed it in and out like air, but nothing seemed to happen. She started to swim around, pushing out a stream of water instead of bubbles. She discovered she didn't really need to breath in at all, but letting the involuntary take hold, she was as unencumbered underwater as she was above the surface. She popped up above the water and spouted the water out of her lungs. It took a little more effort than she expected. It ran ungracefully out of her nose and mouth. She dove back under.

She settled back on the bottom, stretching out on the marble as easily as if she were laying on her bed. She was considering what else she could do underwater, what fire spells might do in this environment, when her chest started to seize. She gasped involuntarily, and realized at once that the spell had run its due course. She kicked to the surface, sputtering and choking. Again, water ran out of her mouth and nose, propelled with little flecks of red by her gasping and coughing. She grabbed the edge, pulled herself up and lay panting on the floor.

Demonic spells, she thought, do not end kindly or with warning. Carelessness and hubris, that will kill you.

With a greater appreciation for the powers she was dabbling in, Cercee dried herself, dressed and went about her day.

* * *

><p>"Before you create fire, you must control fire."<p>

She'd heard it a thousand times. The fire in the little brazier danced on the table in front of them.

"Control to defend, and control to attack."

Cercee looked at the other students around the table. There where four others, they watched the brazier as well. They had all done this before, but usually they each had their own small flashpot. They practiced pushing the flames around inside it.

"Concentrate and you will move the flame. Push it toward your opponent but maintain control. I will remove you from the circle if I feel you have lost control."

Cercee frowned with concentration. The flame started to move around the circle. As all the as participants pushed, it rose angrily higher. For over a minute, it stayed there. Suddenly, it dropped to one side, like it had been held aloft by strings that were let loose. The boy on that side gasped and suddenly the flame pushed back up into its towering position over the table. Now with every breath he took, the flame wavered. His face contorted as he tried to maintain it, sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip. It ebbed and flowed, getting closer and closer to him every time his control wavered. Suddenly it rolled down the brazier and toward his face. he leaned back reflexively and the flame stopped as if it hit a wall.

"You are done," the magus said putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the instructor, noting that the magus's hand was extended, presumably to hold back the flames. "back to the candle with you. You can practice there."

Dejected, the pupil left the table and retreated to a solitary corner to practice alone.

"Continue." And the flame rolled back up into the brazier, unsteady from the unbalanced efforts of the four remaining students.

The girl next to Cercee coughed and the flames rolled toward her. She recovered quickly, however, and the flames pushed higher. Minutes passed. All four where sweating now with the effort. The flames rose higher as one of the participants fed it. Cercee clenched her teeth rather than smile. Hubris will kill you, but someone else's hubris? That she could make use of. She added her own effort and the flame rose to lick at the chandelier.

"Showing off is not control," came the magus's voice. The flame was forced down again.

"If control is the point," the other boy said, maintaining his position as he spoke, "isn't feeding the flame appropriate?"

The instructor considered this. "Alright." And the flame leaped again toward the ceiling.

The girl who coughed lost her concentration as the wave of heat rushed toward her and the flame leaped higher. She coughed again and a huge bend appeared in the flame column. Cercee pulled on her corner and the whole tower whipped around and swung toward the weak point. She was starting to like this game. The girl couldn't stop coughing, hacking an apology between breaths as she was removed from the table. The magus started the game again.

The three young mages poured their effort into the flame. It licked and curled, no longer a column but a small angry storm in the middle of the table. Cercee glanced across at the girl who remained. She was staring intently at the brazier. The boy up at the top of the flame. Cercee picked a point in the middle. She forced a gout of flame up and drove it to splinters. The boy's face registered his shock as his billow erupted and showered small balls of flame over the room. He tried to gather them and extinguish them as they fell, almost succeeding, but loosing his concentration entirely as one fell on to his shoulder, causing him to jump.

"Away from the table." He left angry, trying to decide which of the two girls remaining had disrupted his efforts.

The flame returned to its collumn as the last two students tried to take complete control of the flame.

Again, for several minutes, nothing happened and they both stared with superb focus. The students who had been dismissed stole glances back at the contest to see who would prevail.

"I suppose the private tutoring has paid off," the girl across from her said in a near whisper.

Cercee refused to answer. Hallona? was that her name?

"I can't imagine what one must do to get the attention of a Magister," she continued.

Cercee responded by bending the top of the flame around in a circle. she imagined it winding itself around the girl's head like a snake.

"Perhaps," Cercee said as she watched her flame wind closer to the girl's hair, "If you were a better student, he might notice you as well."

Hallona's face dropped into an angry glare and she shoved Cercee's coil back up into the towering funnel.

Cercee smiled. She used the momentum to cause the flame to spin, whirl upward and spin tornado like. The discharge of heat was causing a small breeze to whirl around them. The magus passed around the table, watching.

"A shame about your parents," Hallona said in an overly sweet tone.

Cercee surprised her by casually saying, "Not really."

The girl blinked and the tower wavered. Cercee let the little flame spout spin madly.

"More a shame about yours, really," she went on coolly.

Hallona's face got red. "What do you mean?"

Cercee smiled sweetly as Hallona rose to the bait. "That they couldn't manage more for the Quel'dori than you."

Hallona's short laps into indignation was all it took. She lost her control on the tower of flame and with nothing to balance the force from Cercee, the entire funnel whipped toward her. the magus jumped, throwing a spell in an attempt to stop the flames, but not before the lopsided blast had licked around the girl's neck and face. Cercee settled her own efforts back to the little brazier as Hallona screamed, the hair on her face and hands singed off, streaks of red wrapping around where the blast had hit her. The magus wrapped the girl in her cloak and whisked her without another word down the hall, leaving the rest of the pupils sitting in silence.

When the magus did not return, the four decided they were free to leave. Silently, they cleaned away the brazier and swept up the ashes.

"What did you do to her?" one of the boys asked as they left, following her down the long corridor of open windows.

Cercee turned her head to look at him.

"Nothing," she shrugged. "She did it herself."

He turned his head forward and continued to walk next to her. "You did nothing?" He was clearly doubtful.

Cercee shook her head. "All I had to do was build the flame," she said. "When she faltered, it simply fell into the vacuum." She glanced at him. Not unpleasant. "Tribas, isn't it?"

"It is," he said, tossing his chestnut hair out of his face as they walked. "You are Cercee."

"I am," she said, continuing out into the courtyard and toward the main gates.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To study," she said, starting to tire of the conversation.

"May I join you?" he asked.

Cercee stopped and looked at him. She knew him, had seen him before, but had never paid much attention to him. He had managed the little shower of fire without running from it, so that was a point in his favor.

"You are an arcanist," she said.

He straitened and nodded, "I am. The art of flame is not my first choice."

Cercee smiled a little. "Perhaps I could help you, if you will help me with my study if the arcane. I have no patience for constructs."

He smiled back. "Of course." He started to extend his arm, as to escort her.

"Not now," she said, holding out a hand to refuse. "I have a previous engagement."

Tribas tried to mask his disappointment. "Later then?"

She nodded, "Later then."

He bowed to her, waited till she turned from him, and headed back toward the main hall.

Cercee walked to the baker's smiling, a little lighter for two victories in one day.


	3. Chapter 3

There were wards against scrying. There were spells to detect spells and experts that watched for such violations. That didn't mean no one tried. Every so often, someone who was confident enough, or angry enough, or drunk enough would try. Most often, it was near harmless, fueled by petty jealousy, adolescent lust or academic greed. Cercee didn't think she could yet circumvent the protections from within the school, but she decided from outside the school, that might be easier. It was likely childish, but she enjoyed working in her father's study. Not out of a sentimental need to feel close to him, but out of a self satisfaction that she was succeeding in a path he had fled from. That and it was imminently practical for the work. She waited or a time when the servants where gone, drew the shades, lit a candle and reviewed the spell. So different from the arcane. The arcane was drawing on the ebb and flow of ancient forces that moved through every one and everything. This, this was an act of will. There was no cajoling, no feeling ones way, only force and command. Much more direct.

When she deemed her understanding to be sufficient, she lay the book on a small pedestal and stepped back. She started chanting the words and repeating the hand gestures that would draw this force from the nether and create for her a little spy. The green glow wrapped around her fingers and arms, crawled up her shoulders and around her head. She felt her sight elongate, her view pull away from her body and toward her hands.  
>And she was suddenly hit with the most overwhelming head ache she had ever had in her entire life. Her vision blurred and it felt like someone was trying to pop her eyeballs out of her head by squeezing her temples. She blew out the candle and sat down in the dark. So much for direct. When she could finally see the words on the page clearly, she tried again.<p>

This time she felt her vision push forward, away from her body and out into the energy that she was drawing from the nether. But she couldn't get her consciousness to fully disconnect from her own body and as she stumbled forward and fell on the floor. She dispelled the energy, picked herself up off the floor and tried again.  
>It took Cecee seven hours to finally, completely and correctly finish the spell. When she finally did, she had suffered a bloody nose, had a horrible ringing in her ears, and could only manage to maneuver the thing around the study, hovering a few feet off the floor. When she dispelled it, she had horrible tunnel vision and was nauseous from the disorientation. She made certain to cleanse the room, returned everything to its place and, before the morning sun began to rise, left her house and headed back toward the Arcanum.<p>

Breakfast, she thought, I should eat something.

She turned toward the baker's.

"You look as if you haven't slept," the baker said as he turned from his work to see who had come through the door.

"I haven't," she said flatly.

"You're studying too much," he said with a grin, fully expecting that she hadn't been studying at all.

"Yes," she said, equally flat.

He blinked in surprise. He frowned and folded his arms, stroked his chin.

"Do have any breakfast cakes?" she asked, looking over the counter to see what was there.

"You need something stronger than a breakfast cake, my dear," he said wagging a finger at her. She frowned at him, the dark circles under her eyes deepening as she did. "Wait right here," he said, and ducked quickly around a back corner and down into the cellar. Cercee leaned over the counter to see where he disappeared.  
>He reemerged a few moments later with a cloth tea bag in the palm of his hand. He looked conspiratorially around for intruders before leaning over to her and whispering. "I don't know how you feel about blood thistle," he said, almost embarrassed, "but I find it works wonders, for those rare occasions when a nights sleep is impossible to find." He wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked it in the bag with a warm cake. "Our secret," he winked.<p>

She managed a fatigued smile as she paid for the cake. "Our secret," she agreed.

* * *

><p>"You don't look," Tribas started, but stopped short when Cercee shot daggers at him from her seat across the blanket. "Are you feeling well?" He finished a little more diplomatically.<p>

She lowered her eyes back to her book. "I did not sleep well," she said shortly.

Tribas slid a little closer to her, offering a piece of fruit. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

Cercee took the fruit, "Thank you." The blood thistle had worked quite well. She was awake, alert and focused, but it did nothing for the dark circles or red eyes.

"Explain to me how this works," she said, leaning over with the book. She pushed the book into his chest, pointing to the page. "Using the arcane to disperse the fel?"

He pushed the book down from under his chin. "I am not certain. I have not had to practice that."

She leaned into him a little, a challenging grin on her face, "I thought you were advanced in the study of the arcane?"

"I am," he said, pleased that she recognized his skill, "but the Masters seem to be differing on how to address the fel as of late. Besides," his smile was meant to be reassuring, "you don't need to worry about that here." The words came out before he thought about what he was saying. His face went pale when she snapped her red rimmed eyes up to meet his.

"No," she said coldly, "Why would anyone here worry about that." She snapped the book closed and started to gather her things.

"Cercee wait," he said, taking books off her stack even as she tried to leave. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," he stood as she stood. "It was insensitive of me. I meant," she stared at him, "I meant that now isn't..." he really didn't know how to make up for the comment. He took her hand in an attempt to keep her from walking away.

She looked down at his hand and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Fine," she said. She resettled herself on the blanket and opened the book again. "Explain to me how you think it might work," she said.

With a bit of reluctance, Tribas retook his seat and started to look over the book.

* * *

><p>Cercee had continued to follow the schedule her life had before her parents were killed. This included both her school duties and her civic duties. It also meant her religious duties. The first time she approached the temple after fully embracing her new path, she wasn't certain what to expect. Her father had insisted they make the appropriate tithes not because he was a great believer in the power of the Light itself, but because he was a great believer in religion as an institution.<p>

"Make no mistake," he told her once upon her protesting the futility of the exercise, "Priests wield power, real and imagined. The best priests know the difference."

She remembered that as she stepped toward the entrance. Holding her head erect and shaking the thought of suddenly being descended upon by overly cautious paladins, she paid her homage to the revered attendant that day, made her donation to the cause in her parent's name, bowed slightly, and left. Simple, efficient, and she hadn't burst into flame. Indeed, no one took any special notice of her at all. She smiled as she exited. pleased to know she could continue this illusion as well.

It was only a few weeks later when she heard, "You always come alone," a soft, friendly voice came from her side, startling her slightly from her hasty prayer.

Cercee looked up to see a priest emerge from the chamber off the main hall. She cursed slightly to herself. She hated being approached at this ritual to protocol and didn't want to spend any more time in the temple than was absolutely necessary. "Yes," she smiled at him sweetly, then nodded, intent on removing herself from the room, and the conversation, as quickly as possible.

"But the Light is to be shared," he continued, crossing the distance between them in a fast, but friendly fashion.

"I really have no one to share it with," she said simply, again, taking a step toward the exit.

"I had noticed," he said in a quiet voice.

Cercee looked at him, her head tilted a little and her eyes narrowing slightly. He was older than she, not unpleasant to look at but with slightly sharp features and stark white hair that made him look older still. "Had you?" she asked, keeping her voice pleasant.

He nodded, "Oh yes. Perhaps when next you come, we could make our observances together?"

She considered this for a moment. "Perhaps," she finally said. He smiled. She smiled and then she left, another of her father's words of wisdom ringing in her ears. It never hurts to have a priest in your pocket.

* * *

><p>Cercee climbed up the bookshelf ladder, intent on finding the tome she sought. Not a book on magical practice, but a history. She leaned out to one side, muttering titles as she searched.<p>

"Miss Cercee?" came a voice from the door.

She leaned back to regard her mother's maid. She had been sorting and keeping her mothers personal effects. Her eyes where slightly red, but whether it was from grief or cleaning the small detailed jewels her mother kept, she had no idea.

"Yes?" Cercee said, looking down at her from the ladder.

"There is a letter for you," she said, extending the folded and sealed parchment.

Cercee frowned. She climbed down the ladder and took the parcel. "Thank you," she said turning to the desk. It bore the seal of the Arcanum, Master Thaxeus's branch specifically. Cercee frown turned scowl. She really did not need this kind of distraction. She slit the seal with a small knife and started to read.

Dear Miss Morningray,  
>Your instructors have commented on the advancement of your skill. I should like you to join me for tea, so we may discuss your further study. Please join me tomorrow.<br>Master Thaxeus

Cercee dropped the letter onto the desk and stared at the wall. Not a distraction she needed.

Waiting as the dutiful student was not what bothered her. There was a certain amount of protocol to be observed. She was expected to wait. rarely did a master keep an appointment with a student completely on time. Usually, it was only a few minutes. just enough to set the parameters of the relationship. What irked her was the number of students who cast her ugly glances as they passed. Master Thaxeus didn't usually take students. He was a scholar, he confered with Magi and heads of state. He appraised the governors of the best magical wards and practices. He didn't take on apprentices. Or he hadn't in their life time. Murmurs where starting to float. It didn't help that Cercee's area of interest was not the arcane. She had always been a student of the fire school. If Master Thaxeus was taking an interest, it had to be something other than her arcane knowledge he was interested in. Rumors. Quel'dori where masters of the arcane, and the rumor. Ancient and deadly arts. This is what rolled through Cercee's mind when the antechamber door opened and the curtain to the hall was brushed aside.

Thaxeus nodded at Cercee and she curtsied.

"So good of you to accept my invitation," he said.

"I couldn't possibly ignore it," she said with a practiced smile. "It is an honor that you wished to see me."

He didn't bother to invite her in, just swept back into his chambers, knowing that she would come behind.

Cercee wasn't sure what she had expected the Master's chambers to look like, but she was surprised to find them rather homey. Unlike her parents, there where few visible signs that these where the rooms of an accomplished mage. The furniture was old, but well kept, there were many books, but they where stacked in obviously used piles. The rug on the floor was warn from pacing. There was a small table and piles of over sized cushions. Master Thaxeus seemed to be of the old style. He made himself comfortable on a cushion and indicated she should take a seat across the table from him. She was happy to but a little distance between them.

"Tea?" he asked as he poured.

"Thank you," she said stiffly. She did not lounge on the cushion, but sat on her knees stiff backed. He glanced up at her over the pot and smiled.

"You needn't be so formal," he said. "Although i do appreciate that you where raised with such respect."

Cercee managed an appropriately grateful nod.

"I hear your studies are going well," he said passing her the cup.

"yes, quite well," she said.

"It seems the headmistresses concerns where premature," he said pouring his own cup.

"I'm sorry?"

"About your taking more time," he said, "before returning."

"Yes," she said setting the tea cup in her lap. He sipped and looked at her over the cup.

"But not the arcane," he said, letting surprise come into his voice.

She sat and waited for him to continue.

"The arcane as a path does not interest you?" he reached across the table and picked up a tray of tea cakes. "cake?"

Cercee held a hand up to decline. Thaxeus raised an eyebrow and with a slightly demure smile, she reconsidered and took one, setting it on a little cloth on the table in front of her.

"These are quite good," he said, "I was surprised, actually. Higher quality than some of our own."

She stared at the cake while he continued. "The arcane does not appeal to you?" he asked again.

Cercee shifted on her knees while she looked for an appropriate answer. "I find a greater affinity with fire magic," she said.

"It is a worthy path, for some," he nodded. "I do not wish to take anything away from those who pursue it." He set his cup down. "The great mages study the arcane."

"I intend to study it," she said, slightly defensive. "I am seeking to improve, I only meant..."

"Ah good," he said before she could finish. "I am pleased to know the importance is not lost on you. Again, a fine path, but I think I can offer you a better choice." He gave her a knowing glance.

Cercee's fingers clenched a little tighter on the tea cup.

"Offer me a better choice?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, setting the tea cup on the table and rising. He walked to a small writing desk on the other side of the room. "You know, I am sure," he said as he walked, "I have not directly instructed at the Arcanum in well over a century." He moved a few books and came to what he was looking for, a letter, folded and sealed. Cercee's brow crossed. "I did, however, take an apprentice a while back," he looked at her, "I'm sure you know?"

She nodded, "Father, yes, I know."

He smiled as he crossed back to the table. He sat across from her and leaned on his elbows.

"You're father had great potential, and great discipline," he said. "I see the same in you." He looked at the letter and then handed it to her. "Do you recognise the writing?"

She examined it, the seal was her grandfather's, but the writing was Bailas's. She nodded.

"Go ahead, read it," he said, slightly amused. She frowned as she started, but as she continued, her shoulders started to relax. "He was quite forward," Thaxeus said, pouring himself a second helping of tea. "To present himself so? And in your grandfather's name? It could have gone either way for him," he said by way of a warning. His tone changed so suddenly, she looked up in surprise. "But it did get my attention."

She finished the letter and returned it to him. "It is very nice you remember him with such admiration," she said.

"You have his dedication and discipline," Thaxeus let the letter lay on the table, suddenly unimportant.

"I am not my father," she said quickly, and more sharply than she intended. He blinked at her, his eyebrows coming together in ever so slight a frown. "I am not an arcanist," she said quickly.

He leaned in. "Ah, but you could be," he said.

"I do not," she wanted to say 'care to be an arcanist', but instead said, "feel I am practiced enough."

"Of course it is a decision worthy of consideration," he said. "I don't expect you to answer right away." He smiled. "You haven't touched your tea cakes."

Cercee stared numbly at the tea cake. "It is very generous of you to offer," she said slowly, taking a bite of the cake.

"Consider it," he said. "Of course, take you time in deciding. I would not want you to rush into any choice without giving it due thought."

she nodded very slowly, "I will consider it."

Cercee walked slowly back to her own room, across the courtyards and through the halls, considering. On one hand, she was relieved. At first, she thought perhaps Thaxeus knew her secondary course of interest, but it seems that was not the case. She could do worse, far worse, than be apprenticed to a Master of the Arcane. She frowned at the paving stones as she walked. Her father never spoke much of his study under Thaxeus. She would have to search his library. At least Thaxeus would not expect an immediate answer. she could take time to properly consider her course of action. In the mean time, she would brush up on her arcane studies. She smiled. that could be an enjoyable pass time as well.  
>On the other hand, she would then have no time, and likely little space to obscure, her own interests. It was an expensive way to keep up appearances. Still, as the Master had said, worth consideration.<p>

* * *

><p>"Tribas," Cercee leaned on her elbow and smiled at her companion warmly, "What do you intend to do with your studies?"<p>

Tribas looked up from the book in his lap and turned his eyes to Cercee's. She allowed him to brush a stray hair from her forehead.

"I imagine I will seek service in Quel'Danas," he said. "I would like to study in Dalaran, but I am sure I must earn a solid reputation first. Why?"

"I just wondered what someone with your talent aspires to," she said.

He smiled at the mention of his talent and lay the book next to him on the grass. He pushed the stray lock of hair behind her ear and stretched out next to her.

"I aspire to be among the greatest of our arcanist," he said, letting his eyes wander over her face. He lay his other hand near hers, not quite daring to be so forward as to take it in his own. "What do you aspire to?" he asked, an almost teasing patronage to his tone. She chose to ignore it.

"Much the same," she said, rolling away from him and onto her back. She stared at the clouds overhead.

"You wish to be an arcanist?"

she laughed, "No, you're safe. I will stay with the flame."

"So why put so much study into the arcane?" he leaned his face into her view of the sky.

"Because," she said, pushing his face playfully out of the way, "knowledge is important in its own right. And understanding the arcane will only aid me in the long run."

"Well," he said, folding his hands under his head and joining her in her contemplation of the clouds, "I suppose that's true."

"And," she said lightly, "I enjoy my study time."

"We aren't getting much study in today," he grinned.

"Contemplation is an equally valuable use of time," she said.

"If you say so," he said.

"I say so."


	4. Chapter 4

The fel energies were becoming second nature to her. She summoned stronger shadow bolts and had managed the scrying spell anywhere she directed it so she could see what was happening. This was how she discovered her problem with governance. It hadn't yet come up directly, the fact that she was young, not yet of the age of conference when she would be recognized completely as the director of her own affairs. Her "eye" wandered into the corner of a dining room one late evening as her future was being discussed by the adults that now felt qualified to run her life. Her parents documents, letters, her admittance to the arcanum, all were spread out on the table. The head Mistress, Master Thaxeus and several other people she did not recognize where gathered around them, keeping close council.

Cercee fumed. She couldn't hear anything, either, which only frustrated her further. She maneuvered her eye as close as she thought she should, before one of the magisters straightened and looked around, a frown on his face. She dispelled the eye immediately, performed the cleansing ritual she had made her habit, and went strait to her father's study. She skipped the tomes on magic, past his almanacs and atlases and went directly to a small cabinet that looked otherwise unremarkable. She separated a small key from the house ring and mumbled an incantation as she unlocked it, thankful she had paid so close attention to her parents' small secrets. In the cabinet were her parents personal accountings. She had not given them up to anyone yet, finding some ready excuse when asked. Now she needed to know what was in them as regarded her own future. She started to pour over papers. She kicked herself for not looking for it earlier. Surely, she thought, they had left some sort of will. Or perhaps, she thought, they assumed they were invincible. She shook her head. No, they would not have been that unrealistic, not going to war. She found letters from her grandfather, letters requesting they lend their considerable power to the efforts against the encroaching demons, a small swell of pride rose in her chest. she pushed it back as she continued to search. A journal she had never seen, which she tucked aside. Finally, at the back of the cabinet, folded and sealed, she found what she thought might be something useful. It was addressed to her grandfather, the senior Morningray, in her mother's handwriting, but it had never been delivered. She turned it over in her hand. Her Mother and her grandfather had never gotten on well. She looked the letter over as she relocked the cabinet and walked back to the desk. She sliced open the letter and began to read.

She frowned as she read. Two things became clear as she finished. Her mother was far more farseeing than Cercee had given her credit for, and she needed her own advocate.

* * *

><p>It did not take long to thoroughly seduce Owwen. He was from a minor noble family, most of whom served as priests out of habit, and had in one form or another for millennia. He was, however, dedicated to the lifestyle, not the philosophy. Cercee found this something she could easily work with. Outwardly observant and inwardly needy, he made a mediocre lover, but an excellent actor in her game of appearances. And he was quite good at playing the benevolent servant of the light when she needed advice on handling her parents affairs. He had no interest in her parent's money, so his confidence in this area was genuine and as he had no interest in getting caught with her, their trysts were few and she continued her pursuits unquestioned and uninterrupted. But as he was a member of the holy order, however lowly, it was unlikely his guardianship of her affairs would be questioned. It was a benevolent act, after all.<p>

* * *

><p>Cercee decided, after realizing the limits of the eye spell, that she needed a more permanent minion. She needed something that was under her control, that could watch over her small collection while she was away. A better warder that what her limited knowledge could currently produce. She turned again to her father's notes. She had come across the summoning spell before, his notes called it a "basic" spell, but there seemed to her nothing basic about it. it involved opening a tear in the nether and forcing, though sheer intimidation, show of force, and strength of will, a minor nether creature from its moorings and dragging it into the service of the caster. Any such creature, she knew, would be hostile. She studied the appropriate spells for controlling such summoned creatures and carefully looked over her father's attempts. He had not seemed to find it too difficult to dominate, he had called on one creature many times, even recorded it's name. Noktip.<p>

Noktip, it seemed, was an imp. An ugly creature, both in appearance and bearing. It had proven to be a nuisance to her father, so rude and demanding, that he had abandoned it for other pursuits. It was adept, the notes marked, with fire. Cercee thought perhaps the common ground might prove beneficial. She set about gathering the materials to perform the first summoning. among the notes and tools she had found buried in her father's study was a wand. It was simple, unadorned, black. His notes outlined it as a focus for the ritual, as well as a defensive tool should the imp get out of hand. The initial summoning would require time, concentration and a blood sacrifice. any small creature would do, but it would have to be alive when she started. A rat should suffice, she reasoned. Better not to give the imp more importance in its own mind by providing it a larger offering. She set up the parlor exactly as her father's notes described. The rat was in a small cage in the center of her casting ring, all the furniture pushed to the side, all the curtains drawn. The book was open to the page of the incantation, Cercee had committed it to memory, but would have it ready. Lure the demon with the offering, bind its will to hers and pull it through from the nether, securing its servitude. After that, she could summon and dismiss it at will, with some lesser preparation. Cercee checked her work and checked again. She held her father's wand in her lap, taking a few final deep breaths to clear her mind. She started the incantation, gesturing exactly as the instructions described. She felt the energy gather around her feet, flowing around her and start to chanel itslef into the wand. A faint greenish glow surrounded her. The wand began to vibrate in her fingers. She tightened her grip. The glow began to widen to a circle. The wand started to get hot. She concentrated, but it started to burn her fingers. Glowing glyphs separated out along the circle of light on the floor. The wand flared and Cercee dropped it involuntarily, trying not to disrupt her chant despite her seared skin. Smoke began to circle from the dropped wand. Cercee knew something was wrong. She wasn't sure what, or how it had gone so wrong, but she could see the shadowy form of the smallish imp in the spell circle, it's beady eyes glaring at her, a wicked grin on its face. The rat ran in circles in the small cage, ignored, and smoke continued to pour from the abandoned wand. It coalesced, less like smoke and more like a dark spot in the midst of an already dark room. Suddenly, with a ghoulish cry, the imp skittered across the floor and away from Cercee. She had not finished her incantation and suddenly had no way to control the creature. She stopped chanting and scooped to pick up the still smouldering wand. Before she could spot the imp, a fireball roared across the room, barely sailing over her shoulder and flaring against the far wall. Embers showered over the room, threatening small fires on the carpet and drapes. The dark spot loomed and started to stretch. Tentacles started to reach out from its center like arms. Her attention now divided, Cercee swore and in a yell of anger shouted the command to dispel the imp and cancel the summons at the same time she hurled a shadow bolt from the hand she held the wand in. The imp cursed at her as he was compelled back to the nether, the shadow bolt passing through its semi corpreal body, but the blast had been so unexpectedly strong, Cercee had been thrown off her feet and fell hard against the floor. She scrambled up, stomping on singes and patting out the small fires. She pulled the burning drapes off the wall and threw them toward the amassing darkness. The drapes fell to the floor as if passing through nothing and the dark cloud dispersed as quickly as the imp had. She stomped on the embers to smothered them. It had lasted a mere moment, but the room was in shambles. Cercee took a deep breath and sighed. She looked at her burned hand and at the patches of scorch marks on the walls. This would be hard to explain. Ignoring the pain from the burn, she started to clean up the mess, so no one would be the wiser.

* * *

><p>The gardener was trepidatious about leaving the Master in the study when his mistress was not home, but the "tip" he offered eased his concerns considerably and as the last time the Master called, she saw him in the study, it certainly seemed like the best place to entertain a scholar. He excused himself to his duties, assuring the master that he had seen Mistress Cercee leave the house and if she knew he was coming, it was most certainly a short errand. Thaxeus nodded and smiled.<br>He sat in the comfortable chair and looked around the room. Bailas certainly knew how to surround himself with comfort. He was mildly surprised that the younger mage had accumulated the artifacts, not to mention the wealth, that the room belied. Cercee it seemed had inherited quite a library, for starters. One entire wall was dedicated to a bookcase that rose the full two stories of the room. There where mounted maps, decorative but very old, of the continents before the wars changed the boundaries and territories. Astrological maps, lay line maps. Thaxeus stroked his chin. Collectors and scholars. If the study was only for show, what had the Morningray's found on their expeditions? Would all of that now fall to their daughter? Would she have any idea what to do with any of it?

Thaxeus stood and wandered to the book shelf. Small artifacts sat among the books. He picked up a small puzzle box and turned it over in his hand. The script was ancient, ugly and looked vaguely trollish. Probably a curse, he mused. He reset it. There were quite a few troll artifacts, now that he took a moment to inspect them. He had been in the home decades ago, before his former student had a family. The study had been nearly empty then.

"Forgive me, sir," the gardener interrupted his thought. "I am sorry Mistress Cercee has not returned."

"Not to worry," Master Thaxeus smiled. "Now that I think of it, perhaps I was to meet her tomorrow." He gave the gardener a good natured shrug at his own expense.

"I will see myself out, and my regards to Miss Cercee should she come by after all."

The gardener nodded and went back to his work, Thaxeus took one last look aroyund the room, frowned to himself, and left.

* * *

><p>"What happened?" the baker asked, pointing to her bandaged hand. She tried to cover it with gloves and long sleeves, but it really was quite obvious.<br>Cercee unconsciously slid her hand into the opposite sleeve as she adjusted the basket she carried.

"I burn water," she said glumly.

The baker frowned and shook his head. "If I may," he said pleasantly, "Can you come tomorrow? After noon? perhaps early evening? My wife will teach you to to make something simple? A young lady such as yourself should be at least self sufficient enough to," he glanced at her hand, "boil water."

Cercee dropped her eyes to her hand and flexed it. He made a good point, she needed to be more self sufficient in that regard.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Perhaps tomorrow evening," she said. Then, as an after thought "Have you any more tea?"

He gave her an appraising look, as if he might reproach her for the request. "I do," he finally said, "are you certain you want more?"

She nodded resolutely. He sighed and disappeared again into the basement. He returned with a tiny tin.

"I will see you tomorrow evening?" he asked before handing it to her.

"Tomorrow," she said extending her hand.

He nodded and handed her an order of muffins and bread, the little tin tucked inside.

* * *

><p>"I relieved the gardener," Cercee said as she sat across the table from Owwen, sipping tea and reviewing her parents books.<p>

"You did?" he asked, looking up from his calculations. "Why?"

"There is no reason to keep both servants. The garden is small, I can tend it myself," she shrugged.

Owwen considered this as he went back to his work. "It is your choice," he said. "I am concerned that you are here alone so often. It isn't proper for a young lady."

She scowled at him, "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"It has nothing to do with how capable you are," he said. He looked up at her and smiled, "It has to do with what is proper and expected. If you want to be considered a capable adult, there are conventions to follow."

"I do not care for anyone else's conventions," she grumbled.

"I know," he said, "perhaps you should bring the maid on more fully?"

Cercee grinned wickedly at him, "Perhaps you could see your way here more often?"

Owwen didn't blush, but he did return his eyes to the page. "That might be a possible consideration."

"It doesn't make sense if I am at my studies most of the time anyway," she reasoned.

He nodded, folded the books and set his hands on the table. "There, settled for the month," he said. "Your parents taught you well, you seem to be making all the right choices."

She smiled demurely, "If you have time, I could show you what I intend to do with the garden."

He grinned across the table at her, "I think I could make time for that."

* * *

><p>"You came." The baker sounded both pleased and surprised as he came to see who was knocking on his rear door.<p>

"I said I would," she nodded.

The baker looked her over. She looked tired, but not overly so. "Have you eaten?" he asked.

"No," she said shortly.

"All the better," he said ushering her in. "No better motivation for a chef than hunger."

Cercee had no idea what she expected when she agreed to learn a little cooking from the baker and his wife, but the warmth of the kitchen and the smell of rolls and breads put her in a mood she hadn't felt in years. Comfortable. She listened to his very simple instructions with the same attention she paid to the magi at the arcanum, until he finally stopped explaining to her what he was about to do and just looked at her and laughed. She started.

"Forgive me miss Cercee, but why don't you relax?" he asked.

"Relax?" she said it as if the idea was foreign. "I did not want to be disrespectful."

He shook his head. "This isn't the arcanum," he grinned, "I can't fail you."

She grinned back.

"What's your favorite meal?" he asked.

"Your breakfast cake," she said.

He laughed, "That's not a meal, its a snack."

She thought, "I like mince pie."

"Hmmm," he said, "a little complicated for a first try. Something in between?"

"Sweet bread," she said.

"Sweet bread," he said, "perfect." He set a kettle on the fire of a very large stove. "And we will start with tea."

It was well into the night when Cercee left the baker's with a smile and a loaf of honeyed bread she had baked herself. she had not seen much of the baker's wife, but as she collected her things to go, the quiet, but clearly confident elf tucked a small bottle wrapped in cloth into her basket. She pat Cercee on the arm before she left.

"Safer than the blood thistle," she smiled. she also put a small jar of salve into the basket. "For the burns."

Cercee looked surprised, but the baker's wife smiled. "Wives know what their husbands do," she smiled. And without more explanation than that, she sent Cercee on her way.


	5. Chapter 5

Weeks had passed since Master Thaxeus had proposed she study the arcane. He hadn't mentioned it since, but made a greater point to pass by the dorms in the mornings and was more and more inquiring after her studies. She had increased her time studying with Tribas, her understanding improving tremendously. And she continued her fel studies as well. Both the small tin of blood thistle and the potions the bakers wife provided did wonders for her. She alternated the use of them and managed to stay awake and alert for a few days at a time. Her temper did not always last as long as the potion concoctions and although she was impressing her teachers with her advancement, she was not winning friends in her practices. She had started taking long walks into Everysong woods, finding secluded spots to practice her spell work, the scrying and fueling her fire magic with fel energies instead of arcane energies. She found she could draw on her own energy to fuel her magics and when she felt drained, any small creature nearby would do. It took a few tries before she could control how much energy she siphoned off the unsuspecting rabbits and squirrels. There was quite a collection of rodent carcasses around the tree before she could take just enough to leave the stunned creatures wobbly, but alive. She wondered what it would do to a larger target. She would dispose of the evidence, perform her cleansing rituals, and return to the city ready for her day. So certain she was that her efforts had not been discovered, she was only slightly concerned, in fact more annoyed, when she was once again called to speak with the head mistress.

Cercee sat with her hands folded on her crossed knee, waiting with a grimace on her face. The headmistress looked at her from across the room.

"Your instructors are concerned," she stated.

"Over what, now, exactly?" she said out of turn. Cercee felt the cold pricklings of the headmistress's checked anger stretching out at her from across the room. "I have done as you asked," Cercee said, ignoring her tenuous position, "I have been diligent and highly successful."

"You have," she conceded, "But they fear you are too aggressive. That you may hurt yourself." She dropped her eyes to the still visible burn scars on Cercee's forearms.

Cercee made no excuses. "Aggression is necessary," she said. "What is the point of studying the arcane arts and fire and ice if the point is not to be aggressive?" the floodgates of Cercee's temper where starting to open. "If my parents did not want me to be aggressive, they would have sent me to study poetry." She gripped the sides of her chair and glared, "What is it you want me to be? A kitchen witch? A court entertainer? If you do not want me to be the strongest, then why teach me at all?"

The headmistress pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the desk. She had not expected such a vocal reaction. "I believe you need time," she said calmly, "to develop control as well as strength. And," she took a deep breath to address what she felt to be the real problem, "time to come to grips with the death of your parents."

Cercee's jaw tightened but she had no ready response.

"The fire festival is upcoming," the headmistress said, "there will be no classes. Before you return," the look on her face hinted at 'if you return', "we will discuss if you are in the proper state to continue this course at this time."

"Am I dismissed then?" Cercee asked.

"Yes."

"From this meeting or from the Arcanum entirely?"

The headmistress seemed caught a little off guard. "Cercee, it is not OUR intention to take away from you that which your parents chose," she was sincere, "As we discussed before, but now you need to choose. And I want you to be clear headed when you do."

It was the first sane thing Cercee had heard out of anyone for weeks. She took a deep breath, rose from her chair and said, "Thank you, I appreciate your candor. I will hold my efforts in better pace with my instructors expectations," she said, assuming it was what the headmistress wanted to hear, "until we return after the festival."

The headmistress nodded. "We will speak again after the festival."

Cercee's temper was at an intense burn. She tore through her small room, searching for what, exactly, she wasn't sure. Indignation fueled her. what did they want from her? she studied, she gave them her attention, she minded her own business. In her directionless searching, she picked up another one of her father's notebooks. It was a smaller one, less used, mostly a book of plans, rather than any account of his experiments. She rubbed the leather between her hands. Calming her anger by telling herself that this was how children behaved, she sat down on the bed and lay the book on her lap. What was she so upset about, really? she did not wish to stay in her current course of study. She had more than enough resources left behind by her parents to leave the school and pursue...she furrowed her brow. Pursue what, exactly? Quel'dori do not dwell openly in the dark arts. She needed a teacher. She needed to find someone willing to explain what her father's more cryptic notes meant. Her father had gotten to a point, she could get to the same point, but if she wanted to be stronger than he was, she needed more than blind searching. But first, she needed to set up house.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean leaving?" Tribas asked.<p>

"Not leaving," she corrected, annoyed by his tone, "I will not be living at the arcanum, that's all."

"But I will hardly see you," he protested.

She looked up from her calculations. His face was a mix of hurt and anger. She sighed, "Tribas, we are grown people, we have to start making choices as if we are grown. I have a household to maintain, however small, and it doesn't mean we will never see one another. It only means you will have to walk a little farther."

He nearly pouted.

"Besides," she said, "we will have more privacy at my own home."

He slowly went back to the book he had been reading, "I suppose that is a benefit."

"How draining is it to cast mirror image?" she asked, returning to her book. "and does each image draw its own sustenance, or is all of that energy siphoned through the caster?"

"I don't know, I've never tried it," he said shortly, refusing to pass his ill temper.

"Perhaps you should," she suggested without looking up.

"I wouldn't know where to start," he said.

"You are just being difficult," she said, completely devoid of any sympathy. "What's the worse that could happen if you fail? The spell doesn't work?"

He looked at her as if she were mad. "Are you quite serious?" he asked, "I could be killed."

She looked at him and smiled, "Don't be silly, you are far better than that. I am certain if you studied the spell you would able to make a reasonably successful attempt."

He was flattered, but unconvinced. He opened his book again and continued reading.

"When I am living at home," she said to the book, "You might have a place to practice such things. Ambition needs room to grow."

He continued to read, but the idea had been planted and Cercee went back to her own reading with a satisfied smile.

* * *

><p>"My favorite Magi," the baker smiled as she entered, "Where have you been? I thought perhaps my teaching was so poor, I poisoned you."<p>

Cercee smiled genuinely, "No, I have been busy."

"Of course you have," he said, "What will you have today?"

"Something different?" she asked.

"Always something new for you, isn't it," he teased. "Let me see." He started inspecting the racks on the wall behind him.

"Actually," she said quietly, 'I was wondering if i could speak to your wife?"

The baker turned his head to look at her. "My wife?" he asked. a little surprised, he tried to search her face for an indication of why, but thought better of it. He wiped his hands on his apron and smiled. "Why don't you go around to the kitchen door," he said, "I will tell her you are coming."

Cercee walked around behind to the rear door she knew led to the residence attached to the bakery. She knocked on the door. The baker's wife answered with a quirky smile. She ushered Cercee in.

"And what can I help you with that my husband cannot," she asked politely. "I'm afraid I don't have time today for baking lessons."

Cercee pulled the glass vials from a pocket in her dress. "I wanted to return these," she said.

"Ah," the baker's wife said, pleased. "Very thoughtful."

"I was wondering if you could teach me to make them myself."

At first, the baker's wife looked surprised, then a smile spread across her face. "I think that can be arranged," she said. "I only have very late evenings, after the bakery is closed," Cercee nodded. "And I will need you to bring some of your own things," Cercee nodded again. "Excellent," the bakers wife smiled. "When would you like to start?"

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"Tomorrow then," the baker's wife nodded, then shooed her back out of the kitchen. "Go buy your cakes."

* * *

><p>There was something amiss in the house, she could feel it. She set her packages down in the open hall and pulled the wand from under her robe. Since she summoned the imp, she had been fighting bouts of unrest when she wandered through the house, especially the parlor. Even after she had cleaned the parlor and followed up the summoning ritual with a simple ritual to clear the space, something felt amiss. The shadows in the room seemed darker when she passed, the room seemed colder now. She set it down to nerves over her first summoning. Once she had a better handle on the spell, she would summon the Imp again and that would cure the doubt. She was thinking that perhaps waiting too long was her problem as she approached the large arch to open parlor. There, in the darkness, in a large lounge chair, sat a large elf. Cercee sucked in her breath.<p>

"Who are you?" she demanded. Advancing slightly into the room, keeping at least one piece of furniture between them.

He tilted his head and appeared to be looking at her. The room was so dark, she could not see him clearly, could not make out his features. Her eyes started to water with the effort.

"Get out of my house," she commanded the intruder who sat across from her. She held the wand tightly in her hand behind her back, the other hand gripping the top of the opposite chair so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

"Ah, I cannot," the figure said, his voice distant and genuinely sad.

"Leave immediately!" she demanded, pointing the wand at him and beginning as guttural incantation.

"Ah ah ah, Cercee, you'll set the drapes on fire again," he said lightly. Cercee had told no one about the fire, not even the maid. She had cleaned it all and replaced everything herself. She stopped her incantation and eased her grip on the chair, but did not lower her wand. "who are you?"

"Who is incorrect," he mumbled.

"What then," she spat out.

"Ah, there we are, what," he seemed happier with the word. "Put that down, Cercee," he said, "it won't do you any good anyway."

She didn't believe it.

"You don't recognize me then?" it asked. "How about now?" Suddenly, and with great violence, he lunged from the chair, over her head and toward the door behind her. Without thinking, Cercee threw her arms into the air and made a quick symbol with her hands, surrounding herself in a barely perceptible purplish haze. The creature expanded as lept, growing extra arms and hideous fangs and a wicked tail, just as it had started to the few days before. But it stopped in the door, just as insubstantial as it had been then, and turned to gaze at her. She knew it was looking at her even though it had only gaping deep black sockets. It's tail shot out toward her, causing her to jump backward, putting the chair between them.

"Smart girl, demon skin is very useful," it commented as it shrunk back to the vaguely elf like form it held before when she entered. She realized why she couldn't tell who it was. The shade had no substance, it was only a shadow.

"You're very smart to have figured all of this out on your own," he said, walking past her and taking a seat in the chair. "I wonder if you've considered what you will do now?"

Cercee pursed her lips together. "You've been watching me. Here in the house." He was nodding, he seemed to be smiling, at least that's the shape his face was making, but she couldn't really tell. "Why?"

"Well, my dear," he said, leaning forward and folding his insubstantial fingertips together in front of his face, the way her father used to, "I believe we can help one another."

With a swell of mixed emotion, a sudden epiphany caused Cercee's stomach to turn. She had somehow called this thing, perhaps the spell she has cast was incorrect? and had no idea how to control it. She clenched her jaw to keep her face impassive. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice far more terse than she indented.

The shade smiled. "You are amenable?"

"Perhaps," seemed a safe enough answer. "Why are you here? I didn't call you." She tried to sound more confident than she felt about that claim.

"True," he said, "Mostly"

She moved to the side of the chair, still clutching her wand. when he didn't continue she said, "Explain."

"YOU did not summon me," again, he seemed to smile, "your father did. He is your father, isn't he?" the shade indicated the portrait of her family that still hung on the high arched wall.

"Yes," she hissed. The shade folded his shadowy hands in his lap. "Now you mustn't think of me as the enemy, Cercee, I am far far older and far far wiser than you, but unlike some of the things you have been experimenting with I," he laid his hand across his chest, "have no interest in burning you alive and consuming your soul."

Cercee lowered her wand.

"That is far more civil." then she turned and walked toward the doorway. "Where are you going?" the shade demanded. Again, and with the same blinding speed, it made a leap for the arch, attempting to fill it and keep her in the room. Cercee, afraid her hunch might be wrong, dove forward and stumbled out of the room almost ahead of the shadow. Swallowing her fear as the shade filled the doorway, she closed her eyes and tumbled through it. It was intensely, terribly, crushingly cold. she dropped to the floor as she fell through the mass of it shivering and gasping for breath.

The shade screeched and swore, it stretched out around the parlor in all directions, whipping the curtains and waving the linens. the candles blew out and the broom clattered to the floor, it's enchantment interrupted. But it did not cross the threshold of the parlour. Cercee stood, ignoring it's screaming and the ringing in her ears. With as much grace as she could, she was still shivering, her teeth clattering, she crossed the hall, slid a chair into a respectable speaking distance from the doorway, and sat down.

The shade suddenly stopped it's posturing. It dropped back down into the smokey elven form and looked at her. She thought it might be sulking.

"Clever," he said mirthlessly. It took a seat in an imaginary chair, crossing his foot over the opposite knee and settling his cheek on his fist. "Smart girl." he said again.

"You were saying?" she asked politely, now slightly more confident in her position.

"Yes, I was," he said, not moving. He had also stopped bothering to move the face of his form as if he was talking. His voice sort of emerged from the general area of his head. "I was saying i think we can help each other."

"How is it that my father summoned you?" she asked.

"The same way you summoned Noktip," the shade said. His voice indicated that he might have shrugged, but the wispy body sat stone still in it's imaginary chair. "Or similar. That, by the way," suddenly it did move, it shook a finger at her and leaned forward slightly, carrying all the same mannerisms her father had when he was attempting to impart a point in a mater of fact kind of way, "will not go unnoticed. It takes focus and energy." He leaned back and was still again, "someone is going to be interested in who did that."

"Who?" she asked automatically.

"And there we have the point, don't we?" he said.

Cercee scowled and leaned back in her chair, both of them having given up on looking polite.

"You are stuck in my parlor," she said, matter of factly.

"I am," he confessed, just as straight forward.

"And I cannot get rid of you," she continued.

"YOU cannot," he confirmed, "unless you are willing to tell your father you have been dabbling."

Cercee's expression changed. the shade didn't know. She struggled for a moment with the pros and cons of informing him. It. Her?

"What will you do for me?" she asked.

The shade leaned forward again, "I can make sure you find the people who can teach you more." Then he added, "Make sure you don't burn your house down." He leaned back again, "But I cannot do anything from here."

"Are you always insubstantial?" she asked.

"No," he said, his voice dropping to level far lower than any elf she knew. Then it rose again, as if the sudden drop had been a slip. "No, only a temporary condition."

Cercee mulled her options over. "I will have to give this some thought," she said to the shade.

"Of course," the shade stood from it's imaginary perch. "I have been waiting at least a century. A little longer won't make much difference to me. It may matter more to you." He bowed slightly and then suddenly dispersed into a million slivers of shadow that settled back around and into the normal shadows that filled the room.

Cercee took a moment to replace the chair she had moved and then walked quietly to her room, where she locked the door. She lit a dozen candles and opened the floor hatch where she had put the things her father had neglected to get rid of and with great care, she began pouring over notes, his and hers to discover what had happened.

* * *

><p>"Bad morning?" the baker asked. She looked up at him, suddenly aware of the scowl on her face.<p>

"No," she said, forcing her face to relax. "I slept little, last night." "Really?" he said, hoisting a tray of fresh pastries onto the counter. "I thought the students were released for the time being."

"A good student never stops learning," she said automatically.

"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," he mumbled. "Here," he said, passing her a package already wrapped, "Your favorite."

She smiled as she paid him. "Thank you. That is very kind."

"I'll have to teach you to make them, it seems unfair of you to spend all of your inheritance here."

She laughed, "I am terrible at the hearth."

The baker smiled, "Nonsense."

"No," she said, quite honestly, "the mice leave my attempts in disgust."

The baker frowned. "Oh dear," he said. "all the more reason for you to learn."

She smiled and nodded. The baker nodded back. "Tonight, then."

"Tonight," Cercee gasped, "I forgot."

The baker frowned. "My wife will be very disappointed, she said she knows just what to teach you," his eyes twinkled as he leaned over the counter, "I'm a better teacher, eh?"

"I," Cercee was nearly speechless. "I will be here," she said definitively.

The baker feigned hurt, "Alright, so I'm not such a brilliant teacher after all."

Despite her distraction, she managed a smile, bought her cakes and left.

* * *

><p>It took days, and hours of reading and several lost nights until she finally thought she found both the cause and the solution to the parlor problem. She hadn't been in the parlor since their last conversation. She managed several lessons with the bakers wife, between bouts of intense research, until she could make the most basic restorative drought, just in case. She waited till late in the night, after the staff had left and the streets were quiet. She went to the parlor with a candle, set it on a table in the hall, pulled the same chair to the same position outside the parlor door and sat down.<p>

"I wish to speak with you," she said directly to the room.

The sudden swirling of darkness coalesced very quickly in its non existent armchair in the arch. It leaned, apparently bored, on it's elbow.

"You wish to talk," he repeated. he was irritated, she could tell. "You have considered allowing me to aid you?"

"I have," she nodded. "I believe your assistance would be very valuable."

The flattery seemed to improve his mood. He lowered his arm and straitened his posture.

"Well," he said, "I'm glad you have come to the sensible conclusion. I will need a few things.."

"There is a complication you should be aware of," she interrupted. he stared at her. She was sure that's what he was doing. She felt almost as if he was trying to peel back her words from her intentions. it was a very unnerving sensation.

"My father is dead," she said quickly, fearing what he might actually be trying to do. she felt the eerie sensation slide off of her abruptly.

"Dead?" again, the stillness of the body did not match the inflection of the voice. "Damn."

"I believe I know what has happened," she continued. "And how we can both benefit from it."

The shade was quiet for a moment. "I have escaped from a binding," he said simply.

"Not exactly," she held up a finger. "Obviously you are still tethered, or you would not be stuck in the parlor. I assume father performed the ritual in the parlor?"

Again, the shade was quite before he said, "I believe the room looks familiar."

"But he did not tether you to the parlor, he tethered you to the wand," she continued.

"That also looks familiar," he said grimly.

"Which I did not know when I used it as a focus to summon Noktip, thus cracking your bonds enough to allow you to, almost, escape," she felt quite pleased with herself for having figured this out.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Not quite," she continued. "Father obviously did not intend for me to find these things, he intended you to never be found, to be stuck forever in the wand, yes?"

"I would have to assume so," the shade went on, his voice low.

"But that won't do for either of us," she said. "I cannot use the wand as long as you are still attached to it, that much is obvious."

"Oh, I don't know," the shade said, suddenly animated again, "perhaps you should try something small and see what happens."

"No," she said firmly. "Because even if I did, you would still be insubstantial in this plane, whatever father started with you, he obviously did not finish."

The shade dropped his arm slightly and tilted his head, an odd effect on his nearly featureless face.

"What makes you say that," he asked.

"He did not have what was necessary to make you corporeal, but he didn't know that until after he started, did he?" she was almost excited in her delivery. he found it rather amusing, it showed in his imitated body language. "But he kept you around anyway," she said. "at least until he could create an appropriate binding."

"You aren't telling me anything I am not already aware of," the shade grumbled.

"You were unaware father was dead." she said flatly, "and you're wondering how you can undo an incomplete spell and i imagine you are somewhat bothered by the fact that you will be unable to take any kind of due justice upon father because he is no longer your jailer."

The shade's dark sockets seemed to get darker.

"Do you still intend to help me if I help you?" she asked.

"How can you possibly do that? You're younger and less experienced than he was when he muffed this," the shade said gloomily. "I will forever be stuck in your parlor."

"Not necessarily,' she said, she held up the two leather bound books. "I have father's notes, I know what he missed."

The shade leaned as far forward as his limitations allowed. "He didn't realize," she said, turning pages in the diary frantically, she looked up at him, "He didn't realize exactly what you are."

"And what is that?"

He was testing her, she realized. "Some thing more powerful than a novice should play with," she said as she dropped her eyes back to the page.

"Indeed," he said in that unsettling low voice. "But only really dangerous in a physical form," she continued without looking up.

The shade sat quietly. Suddenly, Cercee was unsure of her calculations.

"So it is probably a good thing for me he muffed the spell," she said.

"How do you figure that?"

She looked at him squarely, "because you would have killed him and I would never have been born."

The shade seemed to enjoy that thought. "You may have a point."

"Your kind are usually bound to small animals," she said, "aren't they. Cats, hounds, snakes, birds. Things that have extraordinary senses but not great physical power."

He leaned back, gloomy at the reminder of his own situation. "True. And if you're done showing off..." he trailed off and set both of his arms on the rests of his imaginary chair. A posture her father took when he was finished with the small talk in any conversation. She shuddered involuntarily.

"I wasn't showing off," she mumbled. Then more clearly, "You are stuck unless someone finishes the ritual with the tools my father used."

"Someone," he said flatly, "meaning you."

"Yes," she said, closing the notes.

They stared at each other for several minutes. She thought it was not the outcome he had wanted. The ritual would not free him, but bind him to whatever form Cercee chose. He would be her servant as her father had intended the shade to be his own.

"Or I am stuck in your parlor until..." he almost said you die, but then realized that would do him no good, he would be stuck there forever as her father was already dead and he was still in the parlor. "Damn." The shade took what appeared to be a deep breath and stood. It placed it's hands behind its back and paced around a small circle, tapping his fingertips lightly. Cercee shuddered again. "And what delightful form have you chosen?" he said harshly, "a favorite cat?" he sized her up, "a shrew. perhaps?"

Cercee smiled wide, unable to hide her delight in the idea. "Oh, much better. I think you will be pleased."

* * *

><p>The shade gave up all pretense of imitation. He stood there, a very out of place shadow in the room, apparently dumbfounded by the idea she had presented.<p>

"A priest?" he said.

Cercee nodded.

"What's wrong with him?" the shade asked. "I presume it is a him?"

"Yes, and there is nothing wrong with him. He is positioned at a middle level, he lives an easy life. He has an apartment of his own with a lovely little garden. He has no wife, no children. He is in," Cercee tilted her head back and forth, "fairly good physical condition for such a soft life."

The shade began to pace again. "Why not a cat?"

Cercee sighed. "Because a cat wouldn't do me any good. I need what appears to be an intelligent, well respected adult to see to my affairs while I see to my studies, which, as you pointed out, need guidance. I need you to be Owwen. I'm sure you'll do at least as good a job as he has."

"Do you not like him?"

"I like him fine," she shrugged. "As I understand it, this won't hurt him, necessarily. You will simply take over his duties and we will proceed from there."

The shade was quiet. Cercee ignored what that might imply as she moved on with her plan. "You need me to live Owwen's life?" the shade said.

Cercee thought about it and nodded. "For the most part," she said, "Yes. It will be an excellent mask for you. You can assist me, see to my affairs, aid me in my studies. All while carrying out Owwen's life."

"A priest's life," he said, somewhat sceptically.

"You can always stay in the parlor," she said. She felt the intensity of his mental gaze. It was not pleasant, but it did not last long.

"We can try you're idea," he finally said, more cheerfully, "You have far more to loose in this situation than I do anyway."

Cercee ignored that as well, bid her unwanted guest a good evening, blew out the candle and went to bed.

The next week was taken with preparation. Cercee found this to be quite arduous. She felt she needed to accomplish the task quickly, before she was to return to the Arcanum and before anyone might notice what she was doing. She knew, from her father's notes, that she could compel the shade to assist her, once the ritual was complete, with whatever tasks she chose, but she had to get it right. Error could very well leave the arrangement the other way around, or worse. She also had to maintain her routine, so as not to draw suspicion. the ritual had to be carried out in the parlor, she would have to mark the room just as her father had, and the victim, Owwen, had to be present, and awake.

"It is best," the shade said to her one evening as she paced out the parlor. "If he is doing something I can easily turn on."

Cercee finished her counting, made a note in her own book and looked up at him. Forgetting he did not have a proper face, she rubber her eyes before giving his comment her attention. "Something you can turn on?"

"A foot hold," he said, leaning back on the lounge, the pose of a studious man. Another of her father's mannerisms. "Animals are simple creatures, they feel trapped, they feel fear, fear an easy foothold. People CAN, and I stress can, they don't always, have more resilience than that. If he is already possessed of self doubt, it is an easier hold for me to grab."

Cercee nodded quietly and scribbled in her book.

"Does he have any guilty pleasures?" the shade asked.

"Of course he does," she said flatly. She looked up from her notes. "You spent a lot of time watching my father, didn't you."

The shade froze suddenly, "Why?" he asked, "Am I doing it poorly?"

"No," she said, honestly. He relaxed again into the thinking pose.

"Good," he said, a small hint of vanity in his voice. "It helps to familiarize one's self with the medium."

Cercee blinked over her calculations. Familiarize? "You were...you were intending to possess my father," she said slightly stunned. It was something she had not considered.

The shade spread it's arms out as if to say, what else would you have me do. Cercee could not help but feel the need to sit down. She made a show of concentration over the book.

"As a master imitator," he laughed just a little, "I can tell you're faking."

With some determination, her legs had started to shake, she stood and started to leave with her notes. As before, the shade moved toward the door, not as a hideous creature of shadow, but as her father might have. He stood in the doorway, fully aware that she might not have the physical wherewithal at the moment to force her way through the nether mass. Cercee held her conviction, held her breath and very deliberately stepped through the grave cold shadow to the other side. It was even worse this time, she had no rush of danger to protect her. Knife like cold dug into her skin, her eyes, her chest. Deep into her chest. When she turned back to face him, she stared at him, matching the intensity of his dark gaze with an inner anger and conviction he had not seen her exhibit.

"I am not my father," she said. "I do not have his weaknesses."

"I am not so certain of that," he said, all mirth gone from his voice.

"Do you intend to do the same to me?" she demanded.

"Of course," he said, "if you are unsuccessful."

His frankness caught her off guard, but she maintained her composure.

"Be truthful with yourself, Cercee, in my position, you would do exactly the same," he charged.

And upon very little reflection she realized he was right. He was acting in self preservation. Who would want to be stuck in a wand for a century, or an eternity.

"That is a consequence of your new craft," the shade was saying, his voice devoid of emotion. "Take your chances or take your father's road."

They both knew he could not have said anything more inflammatory to move her toward continuing with the ritual as she had planned.

"It does not matter to me. Either way," he continued "at the end of this, I will be walking out of the parlor. It makes no difference to me whether I am on your legs, or your priests, but as you are such a smart girl, I think you can figure out what my real choice would be."

She already had. Of course if she failed to the extent that he was able to possess her, he would be free of any bond and master less and in her body in her father's house with all of his knowledge and her families resources. What better justice and retaliation for his imprisonment could there be?

"Then I shall not fail," she finally said.

The shade's posture relaxed, he moved out of the doorway and back to the lounge. "I knew I could count on you," he said, the cheer returning to his voice. "If it makes you feel at all better, I'm rather rooting for you. You're very direct. I like that."

She ignored him as she went back to her work, rather stormily.

"There is another possibility," she said.

"What's that," he asked.

"You are simply dispelled back to where you came from," she said.

The shade nodded. "Not as much fun for me, but better than the wand or the parlor for eternity I suppose."

"You will not impede me," she stated.

"No," he said, "I cannot."

"At least father got that much right," she said under her breath.

"Yes," mumbled the shade, "he actually was quite a tricky bastard."

Cercee smiled a little in spite of herself.

She discovered that her father had indeed gotten more than one part of the ritual perfectly attuned, but had been horribly misguided in others. She knew from the ritual with the imp that she had to set the conditions of the binding carefully, but she was also limited to the ritual her father had started. The shade was helpful because he had no choice in the matter. He was cheerful about it, he said because he liked her determination and, he kept reminding her, he was leaving his prison one way or another. She checked and double checked and finally, determined that she could wait no longer, she set her date with the unsuspecting priest.

In keeping with her masquerade, she had been to see him once already, to make an offering to the temple and tell him she missed him. He had smiled at her, said he could use a break in the dreary routine of the temple and they made arrangements to meet. She sent the maid on an errand to Tranquilien for silk and other goods for Cercee's new robes and she had seen the baker earlier that day for some tea cakes that would relax her before she retired for the evening. She figured two should ease Owwen.

He came during the day, what would look like only a short visit with the grieving orphan. Cercee had kept most of the house closed, heavy curtains drawn over the windows. Again, no one doubted the purpose, she was alone, in mourning, in a huge empty house. She greeted him at the door, and led him into the darkened parlor. They engaged in idle small talk. She offered him the tea cakes and some tea. She asked him all about his week, and kept him talking while she walked around the room lighting candles and singing softly to herself.

"You are in a cheerful mood," he observed.

"I have been waiting for this all week," she said with sincerity as she crossed back to the chase. "Perhaps you could see to our privacy?" she asked. He waved his hands and their little oasis slid into a soundproof bubble, the songs of birds and bustle of the street outside gone. She slid the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He started to rise to undress, but she stopped him. "No, let me." she smiled. she started to undo the toggles and ties of his robes, playfully tracing lines and circles on his chest with her fingernails and singing and smiling at him.

The priest was lying back, enjoying his affair and thinking how fortunate he was to have found a young woman who needed his attention in this way when he realized that something was amiss. Instead of coital bliss, he was starting to feel burdened. It was not the weight of his partner on top of him, but something across his chest. He opened his eyes to see Cercee, content, still singing, her arms raised in the air. She looked suddenly very young to him. He was caught, rather by surprise, by a sudden feeling of guilt. The sudden feeling that perhaps, today, in her father's home, perhaps that was taking the whole affair a bit too far. She looked down at him and smiled, and squeezed his body with her legs and pushed herself toward him, and he dismissed the guilt as needless. If this is what she wanted, who was he to complain. He would let it go, this one time, he would tell her they would have to meet elsewhere next, so as not to arouse suspicion, after all he had a position to maintain. And that is when the shade took him.

Like a dart from a blow gun it sprung at its opportunity, it twisted itself into the priest's vanity and doubt about potential loss, it grabbed onto his desire for comfort, his desire for the good life and his desire for the girl. Cercee stopped pretending her chant was some sing song nursery rhyme and gave full voice to her ritual, aware that if it was not to be Owwen, it would be her. Owwen's body thrashed under her as the shade wrestled his mind away from him. Finally, in a desperate spasm, as Cercee screamed the final incantation that would seal the shade to its new form, her body rigid as death in the throws of the spell, Owwen's body tensed, convulsed and screamed, then went limp under her. Cercee sat panting in the quiet darkness atop the limp body of the priest.

All the candles had been blown out. The only light seeped in from windows far down the hall. She wondered for a moment if anything at all had changed. She lowered her arms slowly, they were sore and felt suddenly like logs. She looked at Owwen. He was breathing, shallowly. His chest was red with her fingernail marks and he was covered in sweat. She put her hand on the center of his breast and shook him slightly.

"Owwen?" she whispered, desperate to know who was really there.

The body jerked so suddenly, she was nearly thrown to the floor. He sucked in a huge breath of air and his eyes shot wide open. He panted as if each breath hurt. His hands reached out and grabber her for support. Finally, he fixed his eyes on her.

Owwen's face spread into a wide, impossible grin.

"Cercee!" he gasped. "You were brilliant!" He lifted her off of him with a sudden surge of strength, completely misjudged his own ability to do so, and toppled both of them onto the floor.

Cercee scrambled to her feet, dodging pools of hot wax that had spilled from the toppled candles.

"Ah," Shade Owwen said, "forgive me mistress, allow me." He stood, a bit shaky, retrieved her discarded robe and, with a slight wobble and a bow, draped it over her shoulders.

She wrapped herself in it quickly.

"So, it worked," she said as she watched him.

He was inspecting his new self. He bent over, flexed, stretched. "Yes, yes, yes," he said, not impatiently, but because each word gave him an opportunity to hear the new voice.

"Your clothes are there," she pointed.

"Ah? Ah yes," he smiled "clothes."

He bent down to retrieve the robes and noticed the deep scratches on his chest. He looked at her, "That was quite clever. He never even noticed." Shade Owwen rubbed his hands together, looked at her and grinned. He flexed his fingers and said a very small, she thought, prayer, and placed his hands across his own chest. There was a slight glow, and a flare and then the lgiht, and all of the scratches and tiny blood lines, were gone. He let out a deep, disturbing laugh.

"You were correct, Mistress," he grinned as he dressed, "Next to you, a fine second choice."


	6. Chapter 6

She collected the candles, the books and the wand, all in precise order so as to leave no loose ends. He watched her as she tidied the room. Still dizzy from the fear of the thing and relieved that she had managed to complete the ritual and remain herself. She finally collapsed onto the lounge. He stood for a moment silently watching her before he said, "May I offer a congratulation?"

She looked up at him, suspicious.

"No, genuinely," he said, "May I?" he asked indicating the end of the lounge. She nodded. He sat. "That was not an easy task. Your father was twice your age when he failed it. I cannot say that I am pleased to be the servant, but it was well done."

She remained silent.

"Now a word of caution," he continued. "I said I could help you, and i will. If summoning Noktip did not raise an eyebrow, this surely will. First, someone will sniff around to see if you are still alive. Which you shouldn't be. We need to find out which allegiances can be made and which one will benefit you the most."

Her head was a little swimmy.

"Mistress, or do you prefer Miss cercee," he asked.

"Miss Cercee is what Owwen calls me, when we are in public."

He went on, "Miss Cercee, you won. It is not my loosingest bargain either, and I take great pride in my work." She nodded. "You need to continue to be Owwen," she said. "At least for the time being."

He was nodding now, "I understand, a cat would have been less complicated, but not by much. Charming gentleman friend you have in him."

"Don't you mean had?" she asked a little ruefully.

"Not at all," he said, "I am Owwen completely." He looked at her and grinned, "However completely you would like."

Cercee held up her hand and frowned. "No," she said squarely. "that is no longer necessary."

Owwen nodded, a small pout on his face. "Very well, we have a little time before I am missed," he said, a little emphasis on 'I'.

Cercee's face soured. "You will stay in his apartments?"

"I suppose that will be the most appropriate," he mused.

"You said my actions would be noticed?" she asked. He turned his attention back to her.

"Yes," he said, his face settling in a professional mask, "Any ritual draws power, for those who look for it, and I promise you, there are those that look for it."

"At the Arcanum?" she asked.

Owwen waved his hand, "No, no...well, yes, but they only look for the infractions to their own rules," he grinned, "Your father discovered that. No," he grinned, "The people looking will be the people you need to find."

Cercee thought about this as she left the study and started toward the kitchen. Owwen followed.

"I have been working under the assumption that it is better to be as anonymous as possible," she said, almost to herself. She started to boil some water for tea. "But I do need need a teacher."

Owwen nodded as he stood at the corner of the table. he continued to inspect his hands, his arms, the whole new body as he moved and talked.

"You should let them inquire," he said. He looked up at her without raising his head, a mannerism of her father that didn't mesh well in her mind with Owwen's body. "You have developed some skill with protection spells, I would suggest you create one for the house," he smiled, "Perhaps your garden? Something they will see. Then we can determine who is interested and if they are worth your time."

Cercee eyed him over the kettle. "Why the garden?"

He grinned. "It seems to hold some special interest for you," he dropped his eyes from her face to her body, still wrapped in a robe.

She frowned, "How would you know that if you could not leave the parlor?"

He looked back at her eyes. She gasped a little as she realized how very different they looked from Owwen's suddenly, devoid of color and deep as a bottomless pit. He blinked suddenly and the illusion took over. "I told you I am Owwen completely. It would be ineffective to be the priest if I couldn't remember anything about his life."

"So," she said slowly as she poured, "You know what Owwen knew."

"Every detail," he grinned.

Cercee straitened and blew casually on her tea. "Good, then taking over my books should be no difficult task."

The shade frowned. "As you wish," he mumbled. "Why don't I go out and get acquainted with my new life. To better serve," he bowed slightly.

She was unconvinced of his sincerity and it showed on her face.

He smiled at her, Owwen's most reassuring smile, "Now, Miss Cercee," he crooned, "Do not doubt that I am here to work in your best interest. What serves you, serves me. Of that you can be sure."

Cercee thought about this as she sipped the dark red tea. "Don't be too bold today," she said. "You will come back tomorrow morning and we will discuss my plans."

A dazzling smile spread across the shade's new face. "Of course, Mistress," he took a posture that was completely Owwen's, bowed to her. "I will show myself out." And he swept out the kitchen with no physical indication that Owwen Brightbreeze was no longer himself.

The new master of a possessed priest scowled after her demon as he exited, somehow certain that it would end badly and yet also certain that she really didn't have much choice if she was to keep the new, or the old, state of things a secret. She had eight days left to get a handle on things, and she had intended Owwen to assist with that. She had an appointment with the headmistress before she was to return to the Arcanum. There was Master Thaxeus's invitation also, and there was Tribas. Their practices where certainly helping with her understanding of the arcane Master Thaxeus was expecting, but his expectations where becoming more and more social when she simply wasn't interested in him that way. She made an audible puff of dismay when she realized he was to be taking her to the festivities for the fire festival at the Arcanum. It had seemed harmless enough when she accepted, but that was before the Headmistresses ultimatum and before the new Owwen. She sighed into the tea. Well, what could one social evening hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

Cercee was too exhausted to sleep. She felt like every twitch of her fingers was an enormous expenditure of energy, but the very thought of going to bed caused a wave of panic to rise over her. She disliked the feeling of panic. Her thoughts turned on Owwen's advice, to create a ward on the garden. She didn't really know how to create a ward that large. Exhausted as she was, she returned to her books and started to read. The wee small hours of the morning crept over her as she stepped into the damp garden. In the wet grass, in the deep shadow of the high walls, she traced a wide circle. Purple arcane flame lept to life as she did. She started a low chant and the little leaping violet flames were consumed by a garish green ring that lapped around the circle and rose high finally settling into the grown in a low and menacing glow. She pointed with command into each of the corners of the garden. Fel fire shot from the circle under her direction to the garden walls, seeping into the marble and disappearing from view. The crickets stopped chirping, the night birds did not sing. Even the breeze seemed to die in the leaves. An eerie silence fell over the garden. Cercee stood for several minutes in the center of the circle. Her conscious felt extremely large, as if it filled the garden itself. Her skin prickled as the wind rushed suddenly past the gate, but refused to come inside. She stepped out of the circle and turned to watch as it faded into the grass leaving an ever so faint discoloration where it settled. She walked into the house and felt as if the whole garden was trailing behind her. She stood in the door to steady herself. Perhaps, she thought as she collapsed onto the lounge, now would be a good time to rest.

"Misstress," she heard someone very close to her head. "Miss Cercee."

It was a feminine voice. The maid? "Miss Cercee," the voice, the maid, was continuing, "the Priest is here." she sounded very insistent, and what priest in their right mind would be waking her up at...

Cercee sat bolt upright so quickly the maid jumped back and screamed. Cercee shot her a short glare then looked to her bedroom window to gauge the time, except she wasn't in her bedroom. She looked around the sitting room, confused. The night came back to her in a sudden rush. Her eyes went wide in spite of her attempt to keep her face calm.

"Owwen," she gasped. She looked at the maid and said quickly, "the priest Owwen?"

The maid nodded, suddenly concerned by the unusual behavior of her usually very put together mistress.

Cercee dragged herself off the lounge and steadied herself before saying, "Ask him here, I should dress before seeing him. And put some water on, I am in desperate need of tea."

The maid nodded and gave Cercee one last look over before complying. Cercee made her way slowly to her room and changed into a fresh smock and slippers. She pulled her hair back and put a wrap over her shoulders, something appropriately modest to meet a priest. She avoided the glass, she already knew she looked awful.  
>"I will be attending the festival activities," Cercee announced to the maid as she passed through the kitchen, "I would like an appropriate dress." Cercee smiled, "Would you be so kind as to take the silk to the dressmaker while I meet with Master Owwen?"<p>

The maid looked a little surprised, but she nodded and Cercee continued to the sitting room.

The sitting room had always been her mother's domain. It didn't look terribly different from the study, except there was no desk. even so, the air and the feel of the room where completely different. Owwen sat admiring the artifacts from Gul'zurub her mother had acquired. He turned as she entered.

"Ah, Miss Cercee," he said with the priests smile. His face fell suddenly and he tilted his head. "You don't look well."

The maid followed Cercee into the room, set the tea tray on a little serving table and looked at Owwen with a grateful expression.

"You agree then? She is not well?" the maid asked.

Owwen smiled first at the maid, then at Cercee. Cercee pursed her lips but said nothing.

"Not to worry," Owwen said cheerily, "You couldn't leave her in more attentive company."

The maid smiled and poured him a cup of tea. She turned to Cercee.

"I will pour my own, thank you," she said coldly, her eyes still on Owwen. "Would you see to the silk?"

The maid nodded and with one last glance at the priest, excuse herself from the room.

The priest smiled at Cercee. She did not smile back. Instead she crossed the room briskly to a small locked chest and retrieved the wrapped tin from the bakers.

"Your nurse is correct," Owwen said as he watched her, "You do seem unwell."

"I wonder why," she said flatly as she poured herself a cup of hot water and set the blood thistle to steap. "And she isn't my nurse."

"Oh?" he said. "I would have thought otherwise."

"How long do you think before someone comes looking?" she asked.

"Would you like to know how my evening went?" he beamed.

"How long," she repeated.

Owwen's face fell into a flat expression, "Still direct. Very well, no pleasantries today." He looked her over. "You didn't sleep."

"No, I was tending to the garden."

He looked surprised. "So soon?"

"You said they would look, I wanted to be ready. How long," she asked again.

The shade was all business now, "As I said, I am surprised they have not come already. I spent the evening acquainting myself with the priest's routine. I believe the reason they haven't come round already may be me."

"You?" she asked.

"Owwen, rather," he amended. "It would seem he used you, or his obligation to assist you, as a means to avoid some of his other duties." The shade grinned, "He wasn't particularly careful. At any rate, He was known to come here to meet with you, I doubt anyone dealing in the fel arts wants to be caught snooping by a priest." He looked at Cercee, "well, most anyway."

"Can't they tell what you are?" she asked suspiciously.

"If they where looking, yes," he said casually. "But I intend to give them no reason to look, and even if they do, I believe it is time for Owwen to find his path among the Shadow priests." He made a gesture with his hands and feigned a pious expression. "Do you know anything about the shadow priests?" he asked her without changing his posture.

"No," she said flatly.

"Well neither do I, but I think they might lead us to local practitioners," he broke his pose.

"Perhaps," Cercee said, almost against her better judgement, "if it where to be known that Owwen where elsewhere?"

Owwen brightened. "An excellent idea," he said.

"I will be attending the festivities for the fire festival," she said, "It would be appropriate that I have a chaperon."

"Oh," Owwen looked a bit disappointed, "I was thinking of going a touch farther than Sunstrider Isle."

"Nonsense," Cercee grinned, "Owwen's life is in Silvermoon. Why on earth would he leave?"

Owwen's eyes disappeared into blackness as the shade stared at her, but she refused to be intimidated and went back to her tea.

"It will also dispel any rumors that our relationship is less than appropriate," she said.

"Well, we can't have people thinking that," he grumbled.

"Owwen always seemed to think so," she said, sipping the tea. The blood thistle rushed through her like water over rocks. She felt better almost instantly. "Besides, you wouldn't actually need to attend, only let a few people know."

"You do not want to be seen with a priest?" he asked.

"Not at all, but this is business and the fire festival is," she smiled at the tea cup, "academic."

"You said you had other plans?"

"Yes," she said, "I will have to decide, in short order, if I wish to continue at the arcanum."

Owwen looked bored.

"And I intend to not only continue, but accept an position with Master Thaxeus who is..."

"Is he the one who came to visit you?" "Yes, and he offered me to study under him directly," she said.

"Is that all he wants?"

Cercee eyed him with distaste, "What do you mean by that?"

Owwen smiled, "Not what you think I mean, I assure you."

She was doubtful, but continued anyway, "It will give me more freedom within the Arcanum, and access to his libraries."

"Tread carefully with that one, he is not a lust struck priest and you will not be able to fool him so easily."

"That is why I need to know who can better train me," she said, leaning over and finishing the tea.


	8. Chapter 8

If there were ever one thing the Quel'dori knew how to do, it was create a social occasion. The courtyard of the Arcanum was awash in the glow of magically lofted braziers. red and yellow banners waved gracefully in a breeze not quite adequate to support them. Tall tents and long tables ringed the courtyard and spilled down wide streets, each one piled with delicate pastries, heavy liquors, fine wines, spiced meats and fine summer silks just waiting to entice passers by. Music, both real and enchanted, filled the square and poured from open windows and the gates of homes. The weather was, as it always seemed to be in Quel'Thallas, perfect for an evening stroll. As the last sun set and the sky turned red and gold, Tribas offered Cercee his arm and escorted her through the greens to the square.

"You look lovely," Tribas offered as they walked.

She smiled, but not at him, exactly. She watched the other festival goers laughing, dancing, drinking. No one paid any particular attention to anything outside of themselves. The couple walked slowly around the square, making small talk and enjoying the air. Tribas bought them both glasses of wine and they took a seat on a patch of grass near the impromptu dancing ring. Cercee watched the street performers as they made their circle, looking for contributions for their entertainments.

"Your house doesn't feel too big for you?" Tribas asked.

"Not any bigger than it did before," Cercee said, her eyes on a fire eater who had attracted a crowd nearby.

"Really?" his voice took on an air of patriarchal concern, "I would think, all alone, it would be unbearable."

Crecee turned her attention back to him, a slow smile spreading over her face. "Why Tribas," she mocked, "how sweet of you to be concerned."

The young mage straightened, slightly put off by her tone, "I only meant that it must be lonely, now that you are no longer living at the school."

"Not at all," she said, returning her gaze to the fire eater, who was now tossing the torches skyward before extinguishing them in his mouth, "The house was most often empty before and I am far too busy to be concerned with guests." She sipped the wine.

"Too busy for guests?" he leaned a little into her back, resting his wine glass next to her and smiling very close to her ear.

She smiled without looking at him. "Depends on the guest, I suppose."

"What type of guests would you consider acceptable?"

She smiled at him again, "Planning on a practice session?"

He leaned away from her, disgusted that his advances where being ignored. "Isn't there anything else you think about?"

"No," she laughed lightly. "Would you care to dance?"

He abandoned his pouting as a tactic and stood to escort her into the square. A circle dance had started and the music floated lightly through the air. He held her hand on top of his as they joined the dance.

"So, acceptable company?" he asked as they moved together.

She passed under his arm, "For now? Yes."

They stepped apart and back together again. She crossed into his arms and he whispered into her ear, "You think so little of me?"

"Not at all," she whipped out of his arms and bowed before stepping to the next partner, "You have been tremendous."

She stepped to her right, he to his, and the dance started again, with the tempo increased. She danced with a charming older gentleman, a young knight, and was part way into the last set before she would return to her original partner when she started to feel flush. The music sped up with each pass and the air was warm, but even considering the wine, she began to feel as if something was wrong. She turned back to catch Tribas's hand and wobbled unsteadily.

"Where your other partners as charming?" he asked with a grin as she stepped into him. She passed under his arm and the entire square started to spin around her. "Cercee?"

She felt as if she were being pulled in two directions at once. In front of her, Tribas, but he seemed miles away, his extended arm stretching yards in front of her. In the edges of her vision, the garden loomed. She spun around again and nearly collapsed into him.

"Take me home," she said, her vision so distorted she was hardly able to stand. The other dancers had stepped around them and where casting pitying glances.

"What's wrong?" he asked, her turned her around so he could see her face. He gasped at how pale she was and her eyes flared suddenly with a sickly green.

"Home!" she demanded.

Confused, he complied.

She started to recover as they hurried back as fast as she could walk. She could see, even feel, shapes moving around the odd reflection of the garden in her perifory. Tribas kept insisting she slow her pace, lest she fall, but she insisted on returning to house.

"Can I be of assistance?" a voice asked, stepping from the shadows.

Tribas, jumped a little as he turned around to see the priest. He relaxed. "No, thank you," he said, supporting Cercee on his arm. "I think perhaps she has had too much to drink."

Cercee turned her head to the helpful passerby. In the weird vision, she could see the tainted visage of the Shade's form creeping around the edges of the priests body.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Miss Cercee," Owwen stepped forward, "I would be a poor chaperone indeed if I did not help you back to the house."

"Chaperon?" Tribas asked, surprised.

Owwen stepped up to Cercee's young escort and smiled his most charming. "Why of course," he said, slipping his arm around her waist to support her and disengaging Tribas at the same time. "Such upstanding young people should have the benefit of proper supervision."

"But I didn't see you," he protested. He looked at Cercee for confirmation, but she was looking at Owwen with a mix of surprise and scepticism.

Owwen seemed unconcerned, "Well, any good chaperone knows when not to be seen. You have been quite the young gallant, I will see her home from here."

"Cercee," Tribas protested.

"It's alright," she said. Her voice was nearly venomous, but he took it as the effect of whatever illness was overtaking her, "Brother Owwen is attached to my household." She felt Owwen's grip around her waist stiffen. but his expression remained benevolent. "He will see me home."

Tribas cast am angry eye at the priest, bowed slightly to Cercee and turned back the way he had come.

Cercee waited long enough for him to be out of ear shot before she pushed herself away from Owwen and started down the street. Her vision was still tunneled, but the images of the gardens where receding.

Owwen watched her. "Problem Mistress?" he asked pleasantly.

"There is someone in the garden," she said.

"Yes, I know," he said walking behind her.

She stumbled a little, "You know?"

"Yes," he said, "I was watching for some intrusion over the past few nights. Do you really want to walk into them?"

Cercee stopped and turned toward him. She straitened and closed her eyes, concentrating on the garden and letting the center of her vision disappear.  
>"It isn't a person," she said with certainty.<p>

"Of course not," Owwen said, "why would one break into another's garden when a spirit could be sent instead?"

Cercee nodded. She rubbed her temples. "How do I find them?"

"Are you certain they are still there?" He asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Then send the imp," Owwen said.

"I have not yet recalled Noktip," she frowned.

"Now is a perfect time," he grinned.

Cercee wasn't so sure.

"Why is my vision so clouded?" she asked him angrily, as if it might be his fault.

"You are new to such spells, did you drink the whole glass of wine the first time you tried it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

Owwen raised an eyebrow. "Come, you should be some place familiar to perform the summoning."

"No," she said. "The imp would give them pause. They can see the imp." She looked for a dark corner to slip into and leaving Owwen standing in the street, she quickly cast the eye spell. It was doubly disconcerting, given her vision had not yet cleared, but she sent it skittering along the ground toward her home.

"They'll see that too," Owwen mumbled under his breath, but stood to conceal her as she monitored the sight of the eye.

The eye glided through the street and to the front door. She maneuvered it through a window and out into the garden. At first, she didn't see anything. Only the distorted shadows of the garden itself. She rolled the little eye first in one direction, then another.  
>Perhaps, she thought, she had been mistaken. or had taken too long.<p>

She considered dissolving the eye when a dark spot ion the already dark garden drew her attention. The dark spot moved, and grew, and detached itself from the other shadows. It moved across the ground without walking, exactly, it floated, much like the elementals that followed some of their masters at the Arcanum, but there did not seem to be any substance to it, much like the shade. Unlike Owwen's possessor, however, this creature wore very substantial shackles and its eyes glowed with a malevolent intent. It observed the eye, seemed to consider its options, and moved away toward the garden gate. It wrapped itself around and between the ornamental bars and disappeared into the shadows along the outer wall. Cercee pushed the eye to follow. She managed it as far as the little street, but could go no further, stumbling forward as the spell ended.

"Damn," she swore, closing her eyes against the disorientation. "It left."

Owwen looked around the street. "Come, Miss Cercee," he said with formal finality, as a couple wandered into their view, "it is time we get you home."

When Cercee got home, she went strait to the study.

"What are you doing?" Owwen asked.

She didn't answer. She pulled out the book with the original summoning spell, the one she had attempted for Noktip. The wand, she decided, was likely spent. She would have to try it without the benefit of the extra focus point. Or a due sacrifice.

"Stay out," she said to Owwen, "Stay in the hall, I will call you if I need your aid."

Owwen's face darkened, but he was obliged to obey and without greater ceremony or encouragement, he stepped into the hall.  
>Cercee took a deep breath. She calmly traced the circle, started the chant. She was confident, she had to be. In lue of a sacrifice, she took a small knife from the desk and sliced her palm, letting the blood drip into the circle. Deep black and purple flame sprung from her hands and around the circle at her feet. She chanted louder and with more insistence and the vague form of the imp started to take shape, sniffing the air at the scent of blood. What it did not smell was fear. Curiosity took hold of the thing and in its zeal to trace the blood it crossed into the corporeal and into Cercee's control. Trapped in the ring of flame it screamed angrily as Cercee completed her incantation.<p>

She stared at it as it swore at her.

"Be quiet," she commanded.

It stopped swearing and eyed her with a devious grin.

"You serve me," she said to it. It fidgeted and twisted, trying to find a way out of the circle. "Say it!" she commanded.

The imp shriveled and made a horrible face and tried to ignore her.

"Say it," she said again, "Who do you serve."

"You," it finally shrieked miserably.

"And who am I?"

"Mistress," it wailed.

Satisfied that the spell had taken, she allowed the flame to die down.

"I want you to go into the garden, find whatever creature was lurking there," she said. "Do you understand?"  
>It nodded.<p>

"Can you do that?" she asked.

It waffled.

"Find it, follow it and tell me where it went and I will give you the rat you where looking for," she said. That seemed to give it some measure of glee and it jumped happily.

She dispelled the circle that held it and prepared herself in case it jumped on her. To her delight it bolted for the garden and skittered around, searching. It finally seemed to settle on a path, squeezed itself through the gate bars and disappeared into the darkness. Cercee watched it go, feeling a cold chill creep over her as Owwen stepped behind her to observe.

"I rather thought the imp was a good idea," he observed nonchalantly. He looked at her staring after the imp. "You have unleashed a demon on the city. How does that strike you?"

"Two," she corrected, watching the path the imp had taken. "And all within three days." She smiled at him as she passed back into the house. "You should go. You've seen me home, to stay longer would be over stepping propriety."

He shrugged, "As you wish."

"And do keep an ear out, should the imp draw more attention than necessary. A priest could handle that, yes?" she smiled.

"As you wish," he said again. He bowed and left strolling down the street the way the imp had gone.


	9. Chapter 9

The end-fest celebrations where in full force when Tribas announced himself at Cercee's door. The maid insisted that he wait outside, which caused him to be both annoyed and concerned when Cercee came to meet him. She looked tired, her hair was loose around her shoulders and she hadn't bothered to dress for guests. He bowed anyway.

"What brings you here, Tribas," Cercee asked, genuinely surprised. In her concerns over who had invaded the garden and her monitoring Noktip, she had all but forgotten about her evening with the young mage.

He blinked with surprise, "I came to see that you where well. No one has seen you in two days."

Cercee's eyes got wide, she looked at the maid, who nodded, then turned back to Tribas and smiled demurely at him.

"How very sweet," she said. "I assure you I am fine. A little distracted, but fine."

She ignored the maid's grunt of disagreement and turned back into the house. "Won't you join me? I was taking in the garden."

Tribas raised an eyebrow as he followed her out into the little patch of green she was cultivating.

"Distracted?" he asked, "But we should be relaxing," he said. "We will be deep in study soon, and there will be no time for leisure."

Cercee thought that there was already no time for leisure, but she only smiled and asked, "What did you have in mind, Tribas?" She sat on a stone bench. he sat close to her, and rest a hand on her knee. she raised an eyebrow at him. "Quite forward, don't you think?"

He didn't remove his hand, but instead smiled at her and leaned a little closer. "I will be starting my advanced studies," he said, rather pleased with himself, "I won't have the time to tutor you as I have the past month."

Cercee made certain to look impressed. "Already?" she asked, putting her hand on top of his and gently removing it from her leg. "That is ambitious." She stood and walked to a nearby trellis where small purple flowers bloomed.

Tribas frowned at her back in a fit of frustration. "Yes, well, you see how once I begin, there will be no time for trivialities," he said.

She turned from the trellis to look at him, her face flat as she asked, "Trivialities?"

He threw up his hands, "You know that isn't what I meant." He took three large steps to close the distance to the trellis. "I came to see that you are well. I had hoped we could spend some time together before my studies resumed. You said we had to behave as grown people, I am trying to make you aware of my situation."

Cercee smiled and straitened the collar of his shirt. "Of course," she nodded. "I am being insensitive. You are right, of course. We both have studies to return to and it is well that you reminded me so." He reached up and ran his hands from her shoulders down her arms, his frustration melting a little. "As it is, I have to speak to Master Thaxeus tomorrow and that may be the end of my leisure time as well." She smiled up at him, "So perhaps we should take an evening to our selves."

Tribas's hands froze suddenly. "Master Thaxeus?" he asked, "Are you in some kind of trouble?" He had heard rumors of Thaxeus's attention toward her but had dismissed it. She was not a student of the arcane and he did not mix with the younger mages anyway.

"Oh, no," she said, "He has extended the invitation for me to study under him and I have decided to accept."

Tribas blinked in disbelief. His jaw tightened. "But," he started, "you are a fire mage. Why would you take an apprenticeship with him?" He dropped her arms, "Why would he offer?"

She shrugged, "I don't know why he would offer, but it would be foolish of me not to take advantage of his gracious invitation."

Tribas took a slow step back from her. His face had lost its charm and his ears where starting to turn red.

"Tribas," she asked sweetly, "are you alright?"

his hands opened and closed unconsciously. "Fine," he said. "I am fine."

Cercee tilted her head, intrigued by his discomfort. "But you are so tense suddenly."

Tribas's eye snapped suddenly to her face, he took a deep breath and settled his hands at his sides. "Forgive me," he said, his voice not recovering as quickly as his body seemed to. He looked her over from head to toe again before bowing and saying, "I'm glad you are better. I should go." He turned sharply, without waiting for her to say anything else.

Cercee smiled a little at his back. Boys, she thought, they are so easy.

She waited until Tribas was gone and the maid had left. She donned a dark cloak and a plain dress, wrapped her red hair in an equally dark scarf and left her home through the garden gate. She had an inkling of where to find the imp. She could feel it in her stomach and she wondered if it had something to do with the blood she had allowed him when she summoned him. It. No need to give it more than it deserved.

Tribas was right, she had been held up in the study, reading everything she could find about imps and shades and other summoned creatures, trying to find a description, and a defense against, the creature she saw in the garden. And Noktip had not returned. Neither had Owwen, for that matter. Her readings led to troll stories and texts that where on the tops of the shelves, but they where all incomplete and more speculative than practical.

Cercee wound away from her home. She wandered through the small side gates that fed the alleys into the bazaar. Revelers passed her, no one took any notice. She finally felt herself pulled toward a wide passage not far from the palace. It had once been a grand row, one could tell. The faded banners and the boarded up balconies spoke to once better days. What it had been called then, she had no idea. Now she knew it only by reputation. Murder Row.

The young mage hesitated. There were no glowing lights here, no enchanted brooms. Light spilled dimly from doors and windows, but it lacked the welcome of the shops she was used to. A cough to her left caught her attention. She stiffened. To turn back now was to give up. She continued, with purpose. Wherever the imp was, it had to be close. Her stomach felt as if it had dropped into the ground. She would have to find a way to abate the nausea if she was to make use of the creature. She moved toward a building that had lights and sound echoing dimly from several open arches. She brushed through one curtain and peered inside.

Silvermoon boasted parlors to suit any taste. Salons for the well to do, where expensive drinks and herbs were enjoyed and deals of state discussed and sealed over wine and water pipe. Dens for the less well placed where no less important, influential deals where made over less acceptable vices. Her entrance drew suspicious stares. She placed her hand on her stomach as the smell of smoke wafted over her. A well dressed elf stood from his position lounging on the pillows, leaving his pleasant company and sauntering his way to her. He waved off a few patrons as he made his way to her.

"Are you lost, love?" he lilted, blocking her view of the room.

"No," she said, "I am looking for something."

He grinned a lopsided grin, "Well, love, what did you have in mind?"

She was about to ask for tea when a hand on the hosts shoulder interrupted their conversation.

"Allow me, Saris," he smiled at the elf, then turned his eyes to Cercee. "I believe I have what she is looking for."

Saris bowed, smiled at Cercee and returned to his other guests. Cercee straitened under the new scrutiny. The elder elf smiled down at her.

"Miss Morningray," he said quietly, "why don't you follow me?"

Cercee was flooded suddenly with doubt. She looked around at the denizens of the lair. Most where half overcome by whatever poison they had picked for the evening. No one took notice of her now that a "regular" had taken over the conversation.

"And who are you?" she asked, her father's pride riding up on her shoulders.

The elf frowned, "You came here to find your pet," he said ignoring her question. Then he turned and walked away.

Cercee flushed with anger, but followed behind him anyway. This, she reminded herself, is what killed her father. False pride. She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand and walked a pace behind the elf as he left the den and headed further into the alley.

He led her toward a set of stairs that where cut into the road. He stopped, turned and smiled. She looked at him, an internal debate raging.

"It is what you want," he said. "Or so I suppose. Either way, it is your creature, Miss Morningray."

Cercee bristled, but followed. He led her down the stair and into what, under other circumstances would have been a cozy enclave. Cushions lined the walls. Water pipes where plentiful, the smell of heavy tobacco and other less innocuous substances filled the air. And in a corner, behind a sheer, engulfed in green flame and less than pleased about it, was Noktip.

"You came to retrieve him, I suppose," the elf said casually.

Cercee sucked in her breath. She looked from Noktip to the elf. "I hope," she said through clenched teeth, "He has not caused you any trouble."

The elf laughed. "Sit, Miss Morningray," he said, indicating a low table in the corner of the room. He stared at her, waiting for her to comply. Slowly, she did so, ignoring Noktip's pleas for aid.

She sat, and the elf walked around the perimeter of the table, considering. Finally, he took a seat opposite her, and took a pipe in hand.

"You are very bold, coming here" he said.

She folded her hands in front of her on the table and said nothing.

"By all reason you should be dead," he followed.

She kept her eyes low, as a show of respect.

"Would the arcanum miss you at all, I wonder?" he mused.

"The arcanuim would not," she confessed.

He smiled, "I don't think you understand your position, my dear."

Cercee's jaw clinched. "I do," she said slowly. "You are the one who came into my garden."

He nodded.

"And the master," she guessed, "of the creature I saw there."

He did not nod, but waited for her to continue.

"So you are likely the person, if I wish to learn more, whom I seek."

That seemed to satisfy him, at least for the moment.

"You show a fair amount of promise, Miss Morningray. What is it you want?" he asked.

Cercee looked directly for the first time at the elf in front of her. He was in earnest, it seemed. His gaze was not pleasant, but she understood why he was harsh.

"I want to learn," she said simply.

"You are a student at the arcanum. Go there," he suggested.

"No," she said. "That isn't good enough."

He raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No," she said, leaning forward. "I want to know more."

He leaned back, "Not enough? The finest education Silvermoon can offer?"

She looked at him strait faced, "I find them to be unrealistic in their characterisation of our troubles."

He smiled at her. "Do you know who I am, Miss Morningray?"

She looked at him. He was well dressed, well groomed. Obviously powerful and highly regarded among the underclass in the den upstairs.

"No," she said honestly.

He smiled. "Just as well," he said. "I am content to let you take your pet."

He waved a hand and Niktip, and the flaming cage that contained him, disappeared.

Cercee gasped.

"You may recall him if you wish," he said, his voice low, almost a dare.

"That would seem impolite," she said carefully, "as I am your guest."

The elf smiled. "Go home. Consider what you want, and if you still think it wise, return here in a week. If I do not see you, I will assume you have forgotten this conversation. Consider. I am willing to assume your entrance here was not but youthful folly." He looked her over one more time before he stood. "Meddle with me no more, little mage. I am forgiving no more past this point." he snapped his fingers and a comely elf stood suddenly next to him. "Minnea, Miss Morningray seems to have lost her path. See her home, would you? And leave with her our calling card, so she might find her way back, should she wish."

The lovely elf extended her hand to help Cercee rise from her seat. She accepted. As soon as Cercee's hand touched Minnea's, two things happened. First, the lovely elf's image disappeared. In place of the illusion was a wicked and hungry looking she demon. Sharp teeth grinned at the shocked Cercee. The second was a sharp burning where their hands touched. Without warning, Minnea pulled Cercee close to her, wrapped enormous bat-like wings around her and then everything was black. There was choking smoke, so thick Cercee couldn't breathe. She squeezed her eyes shut against the stinging. Just as suddenly, the air cleared and the smoke was gone. She opened her eyes to find herself in her own garden, Minnea smiling at her, once again the lovely elf, from outside the gate. The demoness blew her a kiss, waved goodbye and walked away.


	10. Chapter 10

"You did what, exactly?"

Cercee couldn't tell if the shade was actually surprised or if he was just trying out the inflection.

Cercee folded her hands in front of her and said again, "I went to Murder Row and spoke to a gentleman there. He did not tell me his name, and he had a she-demon with him."

Owwen frowned. He looked Cercee over, possibly to see if she had indeed lost her mind. But he knew that such things where possible, so he said, "She-demons come in all shapes and sizes. What did she look like?"

Cercee described her. Owwen stroked his chin and nodded.

"Likely a succubus," he said. "They are known to disguise themselves as attractive females." He smiled at her, "I could tell you of a few I have known."

She frowned at him. "Unless you know this one, I am not interested."

"Well," Owwen sniffed, "I am genuinely surprised you are not dead."

"You've said that before," she mentioned, looking at her hand as she rubbed the burn. "And there is this," she held out her hand for him to see.

He took her hand and pulled it close under his eye, his manners professional. She almost laughed.

"Its a sigil," he said, letting go of her hand.

She stared at her palm with a mix of repulsion and fascination.

"For what purpose?" she asked.

Owwen shrugged, "For recognition."

"Is it permanent?" she asked.

Owwen grinned, "That depends on its purpose."

"He said she was to leave a calling card," Cercee mumbled.

"I would say that qualifies," he leaned back in the chair. "Well, Mistress, what do you intend to do?"

She blinked at him. "I will go back in a week. As he said."

"And until then?"

A scowl crossed her face, "I must make preparations for my meeting with Master Thaxeus."

"You do not sound pleased," Owwen smiled.

She cast him a glance of daggers. "I am not, but I feel I have no choice. he has taken an interest and this will allow me to continue both paths."

"Assuming you can stay awake," Owwen shot.

She smiled, "I believe I have that in hand."

* * *

><p>"Ah, the revels have kept you away, but I knew you would be back," the beaming baker greeted her as she entered.<p>

Cercee smiled. She was sure much of his banter was for show, but she enjoyed it anyway.

"What will you have today? Something different I suppose?" he wheeled toward the counter, a tray balanced on one arm.

"That would be nice," she smiled.

"You are in luck," he said, setting the tray down and pulling a small bag of long twisted pastry sticks from a jar. "With so many merchants from abroad visiting this week, I was able to find some very intriguing spices. I think you will approve." He stretched out his hand to offer and then pulled it back quickly, "Very spicy. I believe it something the trolls use," he whispered it as if it might bring the authorities in.

She grinned and took a sample. It was very spicy, and sweet at the same time. The flavor flowered in her mouth and she grinned in spite of herself.

He nodded, "A winner, I knew it would be." He started to wrap some for her. "So," he said as he wrapped. "You have a beau?"

Cercee stopped chewing, her eyebrows shot up.

The baker laughed. "Don't be alarmed, I saw you at the festival. He is handsome, is he a mage?"

Cercee relaxed and smiled. Of course people saw her with Tribas.

"He is," she said, "but he is not my beau."

"Oh?" the baker teased. "I think he might beg to differ. He watched you very carefully as you changed partners."

"He did?" Cercee was surprised. Of course her mind had been on other things at the time.

The baker was nodding and smiling. He handed her the wrapped package and she passed him the coins. "See he treats you well," he said.

Cercee nodded.

"Do you intend to share those," the baker grinned.

"Not if I can help it," she smiled. "Do you have some tea cakes?"

"I do," he said, "but isn't that a lot for one day? Or are you planning to disappear again for a few weeks?"

"I am entertaining a guest for tea," she said.

"Your beau?" he winked.

"No," she said, "One of the Masters. I am to apprentice to him."

The baker looked impressed. "Well, congratulations," he offered. He packed the cakes into a box. "These seem to be rather popular. What does one do to become apprenticed to a master mage?"

Cercee frowned, "I'm not sure, to be honest. The arcane studies have never been my favorite."

"And this would be your path?" he asked.

Cercee didn't answer right away. "I think I would be foolish not to take his offer," she finally said. "There is so much I could learn."

The baker smiled at her, "I would suggest taking care in committing to a path you find no joy in. There is something to be said for being happy in your work."

She looked at him for a moment, not sure if this was more banter. He smiled and nodded and went back to the tray he had set down and she left, thinking about what joy she could find in any path now.

When she returned to the house, Owwen was still in the kitchen, chatting amiably with the maid. Cercee stopped and scowled at them. The maid blushed, deeply embarrassed. She hurried to help Cercee with her packages.

"See that tea is prepared for Master Thaxeus," she said to the maid, her eyes on Owwen. The maid nodded and disappeared to comply.

Owwen smiled winningly at Cercee.

"Lovely attendant," he said. "She was quite dedicated to your mother."

"I'm sure," Cercee said flatly. "Why are you still here? Shouldn't you be about Owwen's duties?"

The shade's face composed and he said, "I am. Consoling a grieving member of your house is well within a priests purview." Then he considered, "Isn't it?"

"Grieving?" Cercee asked, leaving the kitchen and heading into the garden. "Why would she be grieving, it wasn't her mother."

Owwen followed her. "How compassionate," he mocked.

Cercee did not bother rising to the bait. She started sniffing at the blooms and leaves on the small budding plants.

"What are you doing?" Owwen asked.

"Looking for an appropriate centerpiece for the table," she said.

"You have many inside," he said.

Cercee ignored him. "I need something that will," she thought about an appropriate description, "put him into an agreeable frame of mind."

A slow smile spread over Owwen's face. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

"His confidence," she said, pickling a satisfactory bloom.

"Might I make a suggestion?" he asked, following her back into the kitchen.

She looked at him, "Yes."

He smiled, "Allow me to stay."

"Why?"

"Because a young lady should not enter into such arrangements without proper adult advice," he grinned.

Cercee considered as she pounded the blossom to paste.

"What serves you, serves me, Mistress," he said pleasantly. "What harm could there be in my staying?"

Cercee frowned. "I'm sure I could find some, if I had time. Fine, you may stay. MY best interests, remember."

"Of course," he said gleefully. "I shall inform the maid to prepare one more for tea."

* * *

><p>Master Thaxeus sat slightly agitated as he looked from Cercee to Owwen. He wanted very much to be displeased, but could find no plausible reason to be. He had hoped that the arrangements for Miss Morningray's future could be handled without interference. He concentrated his gaze on Cercee.<p>

"I am glad you have decided to accept, Miss Morningray," he said.

Cercee nodded, "I apologist it took me so long to make my acceptance official."

"Not to worry," he said, "I understand, you have been dealing with much." He glanced at Owwen. "It is good to see that you have help in that."

Cercee stirred a little potpourri pot in the center of the table, allowing the fragrant aroma to fill the room. "Yes," she said without looking at either of the tea guests, "I have been near overwhelmed by those who have stepped forward to help me."

Owwen ignored her and smiled at Thaxeus. "I am only fulfilling what I'm sure would have been her father's wishes," he said pleasantly, "to be a faithful servant to his family."

Thaxeus sipped the tea. "You knew Bailas?"

Owwen nodded. Cercee felt her stomach turn unpleasantly. "I did," Owwen said.

"And he asked you to see to his daughter?" the magus asked, clearly skeptically.

"Oh, no," Owwen shook his head, his face overcome by modesty, "I am sure his death came as a complete shock to him. I doubt he had any plans for his own demise. No, Cercee approached me shortly after her parents' deaths. I think it shows remarkable maturity on her part. "

Thaxeus raised an eyebrow. He had to agree with the priest. He glanced at Cercee, who's face was composed, but suddenly lacked any color.

"Are you alright, Cercee," he asked.

Owwen looked at her and a wash of pity came over his face. "Ah, I've upset her. My apologies," he waved the maid over. "Would you please take Miss Cercee and get her some water? I'm afraid I have upset her."

The maid nodded.

Cercee seethed. She glared at Owwen and she stood, curtsied, and left the table, having no choice than to comply with the wishes of her "elders".

Once she had left, Owwen settled his attention back to Thaxeus.

"she is quite fortunate that you have taken an interest in her studies," Owwen said, offering Thaxeus more tea. "As I understand it, the arcane is not her specialty."

Thaxeus accepted the tea, "That can be changed. She has her fathers capabilities, I am sure."

"Does she?" he asked innocently. He stood and started toward the study. "Perhaps i could ask your advice, then."

Thaxeus was intrigued. "If you wish," he said.

Owwen smiled and led Thaxeus to the study.

"I am unable to help her in her magic studies," Owwen said, searching the books on the shelves. "She is very inquisitive as well. She was looking for something on the trolls." he pulled a few titles out, put them back, frowned at the shelf, "Would you know anything about that?"

Thaxeus raised an eyebrow. "Some," he said, "The trolls of this region tend toward darker arts, however."

"Well, I know Bailas has, had, well there resides in the study and in his his private chambers quite a collection of troll artifacts, books, histories," he smiled at Thaxeus,

"I thought perhaps you might know what she would be looking for."

"It depends," he said, starting to peruse the books, "What artifacts?"

Owwen's smile widened, "Well, I do not know their particular significance," he said. "Or really what she was looking for. I only wanted to help."

"Of course, of course," Thaxeus waved, he surveyed the shelf, his eyes falling on the puzzle box. "Well," he said, "perhaps I could assist her in determining the worth of such items."

Owwen followed his stare, "I'll suggest that to her. I am certain she would appreciate your guidance." Owwen stepped between Thaxeus and the book shelf. "Shall we return to tea?"

Cercee kept her temper in check as the maid cleared the tea and Thaxeus returned to his own home. She took a watering can out to the garden and drown her peace blossoms.

"I hope you have a satisfactory explanation for that," she said as Owwen came up behind her.

"Of course," Owwen said. "Propriety dictates you have an appropriate guardian look out for your interests. I was only filling the role."

"And what did you discuss in my absence?"

Owwen's demeanor changed, he seemed gleeful in sharing his deductions, "Master Thaxeus is very interested in having you study with him, but I don't think it has much to do with you."

Cercee looked at him, somewhat insulted.

Owwen stiffened, "Please," he said defensively, "You intend to use him, do not think his intentions are any more pure."

Cercee turned back to her garden. "Fair enough," she grumbled.

"I think he is interested still in your father. Or your father's things. How much do you know of his private interests?" Owwen leaned over her slightly to watch her reaction.

She sat back a little, unconcerned by his scrutiny. She thought for a moment, "Little, actually."

Owwen smiled, "Perhaps it is time you looked into it."


	11. Chapter 11

The first days with Master Thaxeus where taxing. She had expected nothing less, it was certainly the period where he would test her resolve and commitment. He was not complimentary. She also understood that. In the evenings, she would walk all the way back to her own home, change her clothes, and begin her alchemy practice. She would sleep for an hour or so, take a restorative and walk out of the city walls, into Eversong, practice her other spells and then return to Master Thaxeus for the day. Much as when she was studying with Tribas, her body held better than her temper.

She had only seen Tribas once since he had so unceremoniously left the garden. She wasn't sorry for it, exactly, she didn't miss him. She did miss the attention he paid her. But her mind was soon occupied with other tasks and she hurried about the day without dwelling on it.

She also had not seen Owwen, for which she was both relieved and concerned, so she was doubly surprised when he showed up at the door of Master Thaxeus's study.

"Brother Owwen," Thaxeus said as he led the priest into the chamber, "I am so pleased you where able to come."

Cercee's head shot up strait out of the book on primal energies and the intersection of magical forces she was immersed in. She narrowed her eyes at Owwen.

"I could not possibly ignore the opportunity to discuss history and dine with you, Master Thaxeus," Owwen said. Thaxeus turned to prepare a seat for the guest and

Owwen winked at Cercee. He was not wearing the robes he usually donned to see parishioners. He was wearing, not casual attire, but professional. He carried under his arm a large book. "I did manage to find the tome we where discussing."

"Excellent," Thaxeus said, turning sharply and almost snatching at the book. He looked at Owwen, "May I?"

Owwen smiled, Cercee recognized it as more the shade smiling than the priest. "Of course," he said. He hesitated in handing it over, however, his eyes sliding with a slightly protective and concerned expression to Cercee. Thaxeus looked from the book, to the priest, to the pupil.

"Cercee," he said, "would you take you reading elsewhere? And be sure you eat, we will have a full afternoon." He looked at the tome Owwen carried. "Come back for tea, we will resume then." Owwen handed him the book.

Cercee nodded and marked her place in the book. Owwen stepped over to help her off the low cushion with the large book in her hand.

"It has been a week," he reminded her under his breath, "This should give you ample time."

Cercee kept her polite smile frozen. It had been a week since she had sought out the caster who invaded her garden. She had planned to go after Thaxeus had dismissed her for the day, but Owwen had engineered a completely acceptable excuse, with Thaxeus's blessing. She collected her things and excused herself before Thaxeus could change his mind.

"Now," Owwen said, making himself comfortable at the low table across from the mage. "I am fascinated by the study of trolls," he smiled wide and inviting. "Surely someone with your experience has a wealth of stories."

* * *

><p>Finding her way back to Murder Row was not a problem. Finding the den where she had first met the elder sorcerer, also not a problem. Finding the man himself, however, proved to be more difficult. The proprietor of the den did not seem interested in helping her, even though his establishment seemed near empty. She did not trust that anyone she asked on the street would know, care or care to help her. Her head started to pound with the smell of the place and her palm started to itch. She walked deeper into the shadows, looking for any sign that might make sense. If the sigil was for recognition, who was she to show it to? She considered as she walked through the alley and toward the trade square on the other side. The persistent itching became a slight burning as she stepped out of the shadow and into the open air. She walked to a nearby planter and sat on the heavy edge. She looked at her burned hand. The marks where red and puffy, as if they had just been struck. So she can find her way back to us, he had said.<p>

Cercee pressed her lips together, clenched her fist and started to walk around the edge of the square, following the discomfort until it became pain. By the time she stepped into the trade shop, her arm was stiff from the effort to resist the pain and she had punctured her own palm with her fingernail trying to distract her mind from the burning she was sure had gone clean through to the back of her hand.

The busy shop took no notice of her right away. There was no one at the tidy desk, but she quickly scanned the faces of the many young elves that hefted boxes onto tall shelves and climbed ladders retrieving oddly shaped items from remote shelves. All busy, tidily dressed young males, save for one familiar female figure that wound her way though the bustle and toward Cercee. She didn't speak, but as she passed the busy clerks all seemed to make gestures to impress her; grunting as they exerted over one crate, leaning a little farther out on the ladder, commenting on the weight of a particular load. She paid them no mind, she was focused on their newest customer.

Minnea stopped behind the desk and smiled at Cercee. Cercee wanted to scream the pain had become so intense. Without realizing it she had crossed her arms and was pinching her hand between her elbow and her ribs in an attempt to crush out the pain, but her posture remained strait and her face, though flushed, was composed. Minnea opened a large ledger and ran her fingers down one column until she came to an entry she seemed to approve of.

"Ah, Miss Morningray," she crooned in an accent Cercee had never heard before, "You are right on time."

She lifted the heavy book under her arm and headed back into the warehouse, indicating that Cercee should follow. She did so, with effort. The workers around her took no notice of her, their attention either on their work or on the impeccably sculpted Minnea. She led Cercee past a large open double arch where a massive wagon was being unloaded, through a small door and up a winding ramp to a second floor office. Or she assumed it was an office. By this point, if she had a knife, she would have cut her own hand off. Tears started to well in her eyes as the Minnea announced her to the familiar looking elf at the desk.

"Miss Morningray has arrived, Master," Minnea said casually, as if she was announcing that lunch would be served in ten minutes, which she did immediately after, either not noticing or not caring that their guest was obviously in tremendous pain.

"Thank you, Minnea," he said looking up from the papers he was reviewing. "We will have it here."

Minnea inclined her head and backed out the room, brushing so close to Cercee she could smell the perfume on her skin. For a brief second, Cercee was tempted to follow Minnea, pain and purpose be damned, but the elf at the desk spoke and drew her attention. He was crossing the room to greet her.

"Good afternoon," he said simply, stopping in front of her.

Protocol would dictate a curtsy. She dipped slightly and mumbled through clenched teeth, "Good afternoon."

He smiled and reached out to take her hand. She flinched as he did, but had nothing left in her reserve to resist. He opened her palm to inspect it. Cercee was sure she would gag. It looked at though the sigil had turned to pustulous gashes, she was sure there was exposed tendon and bone. The burning as it was exposed to the air made her want to scream and pass out, but she only managed a gasp and a slight waver where she stood.

He smiled at her. "Steady," he said, and he pressed her hand between his. There was a quick, excruciating sharpening of the pain, as if it had all been drawn to one concentrated point on the center of her palm, and then it completely disappeared.

She blinked in surprise. He inspected her palm once more before releasing it. Completely unscathed. He grinned at her as he let go and returned to his desk.

"Won't you sit," he said politely, indicating the simple chair against the wall next to the desk. He moved it as he passed so it sat opposite his own. She rubbed the skin on her hand, not sure if what she had seen had been only illusion and the pain a mental trick. Either way, it had been extremely effective.

The elf was looking at her. she dropped her hands to her sides and with as much dignity as possible, glided to the seat he had offered.

"I am impressed," he said simply. "Your persistence and control are admirable."

"Thank you," she said, unsure of what he wanted to hear.

"Why did you seek me out?" he asked. His tone was one of professional curiosity, as if he was asking her which shade of blue she might like or which of the statuettes she passed in the hall was her favorite.

"I need a teacher," Cercee said, this time quite certain of her answer.

"For what?" he asked, a bit more pointed this time. "We have already established that you have access to a fine education."

Cercee looked at him. He was still very well dressed, although clearly not for leisure, and while he was confident, he was not overly so. His long brown hair was top knotted, likely so it did not interfere with his work. He looked a very unlikely warlock.

"If I may," she said, "How should I address you?" It seemed less vulgar than asking his name.

He smiled, "You may call me Master Zanien."

She nodded, "I need a teacher in the arts that the Arcanum refused to practice."

"You mean refuses to acknowledge," he corrected.

She blinked, "Sir?"

"You've managed to learn quite a lot. You aren't the first," he said. "It is important to know where you stand in these matters. The Arcanum does not refuse to practice darker arts, they refuse to acknowledge them or legitimize them." He reached across the desk for a small pipe that rest in a holder. "Like many other things people do in secret."

Cercee considered what he said before she asked, "Does that mean you will not teach me?"

He laughed a little as he lit the pipe. "I have not decided yet," he said. He took a few puffs and looked at her. "Why do you want to learn such dark and shunned arts?" he asked.

Cercee was a little surprised by the question. "Does that matter?" she asked.

Zanien tilted his head and started at her intently, "It matters tremendously." He leaned in a little. "Dedication matters in a path. Those who practice dark arts, Miss Morningray, are much maligned. Called greedy or glory seekers," he leaned back. "It is not a fast path to power, as many soon find out." He looked her over again. "Why is this what you want to learn?"

Cercee took a deep breath. She had started following in her father's footsteps because they had been her father's footsteps. She had continued after his death because...

Cercee paused in her thoughts and looked at her host.

"We are not the greatest forces in Azeroth," she said carefully. He listened without any sign of judgement, so she continued. "The Arcanum, the instructors there are undoubtedly powerful," again, she tried to tread lightly in her words, "but the arcane is not the most powerful force there is. It cannot be, or there would be no wars. We would simply subjugate those that rose against us." He seemed very interested now. "To ignore, or worse deny, those other forces is folly. Hubris," she said very insistently. "And hubris leads to death."

He considered her answer to his question. He leaned back and took a few more thoughtful puffs on the pipe.

"You are aware not everyone shares that point of view," he said.

"Yes."

"You understand the sacrifices that will be required," he asked.

"Yes."

He seemed surprised by the readiness of her answer. "What are you willing to sacrifice for the pursuit of this knowledge, Miss Morningray?"

She looked at him and said with a completely strait face, "I have nothing that means more to me than the ability to protect myself."

He raised an eyebrow at the statement, as if not convinced that it was completely sincere.

"I am prepared to consider teaching you. You will come tomorrow, the same time will do. We will start with the curse I set upon you. Usually it serves to keep the disinterested or terminally nosey far away. Congratulations, you are hardier than most." The door swung open and Minnea entered with a large tray, which she set on the desk. Zanien smiled. "Ah good, lunch."


	12. Chapter 12

After a month of secretly stealing time in Murder Row, Cercee had come to know the denizens there, even the informants who skulked about the corners. She knew who to drop bits of information to and to whom she should drop coin to keep her coming and going secret. And she knew people like that were always available to the heaviest purse. It was to the heavier purse, she assumed, that the skulk was being loyal when the sentinel followed her into the alley. She knew better, once she recognized she was being followed, than to come into her teacher's den. She might as well light the match under her own pyre, so she kept walking, all the way to the far side of the Row to the small back door entrance to the bottom level of the bar she knew was there. She had never been in, but she assumed it would be easier to fake her curiosity about that than a coven of warlocks. She wasn't sure she would even be able to get in. And then fortune smiled.

As she reached for the door handle, it burst open from the other side. Out stumbled the loudest, drunkest and most scantily dressed young woman Cercee had ever had the great pleasure of laying her eyes upon. And she was, even more remarkably, unescorted. Cercee thanked whatever star might be watching over her and reached out to catch the falling girl. As the sentinel closed in, Cercee reached her arm under the girl's shoulder and in her sweetest and most concerned voice she said,

"Oh thank heavens! THERE you are!"

The sentinel looked surprised. The girl looked surprised. Cercee decided that to stop now would surely do her in so she wheeled around on the sentinel. "Well?" she demanded. "Are you going to help?"

The sentinel stumbled a little, looked at the girl and dropped his jaw. "Mistress Aegis," he said, half apologetically. He reached for her.

"No idiot," Cercee snapped, "Get her things, inside! Inside!"

The sentinel was clearly not appreciative of the OTHER young girl snapping at him, but clearly he was more concerned about the young woman swaying unstably next to her. He grumbled something about thieves and whores and pushed through the door. Cercee half pushed half dragged the girl away from the door and into the shadow. Her head had dropped forward and she was giggling to herself. Cercee lifted up her head and looked at her face. She had black hair, cut short and dark eyes. And she sported a monstrous black eye. Cercee made a face.

"Hey, girl," she whispered coarsely, "what's your name?"

The girl rolled her head around and grinned.

"Your name?" Cercee said, pulling her toward the wider street entrance that would take them out to a main thoroughfare, away from the bar.

The girl looked at Cercee as if she was having trouble focusing. "Tanel," she finally said. "I'm Tanel." And she promptly passed out.

Cercee was surprised when the sentinel returned with a full set of clothes and a cloak. She shoved a small bag of gold into his hand and before he had an opportunity to argue she said, "Here, hire a carriage," she said, "and for Light's sake, be discrete." And then she added, "whatever the carriage doesn't cost, keep for your trouble." The sentinel stared at her for a moment. "Well?" she stamped her foot. In for a penny...

To her great relief, he complied.

She slapped the girl awake, "Hello Tanel, I'm Cercee."

"Cercee?" she mumbled.

"That's right," she said, pulling her shirt on over her head. "Your friend Cercee."

"Hello Cercee!" Tanel squealed.

"Shhhh Sh Shhhh," Cercee scowled. Tanel immediately clamped her hand over her mouth, a move too much for her. She toppled forward, vomiting. Cercee rolled her eyes. She draped the cloak over her shoulders. And then Cercee saw the crest. Now she knew why the sentinel was so willing to comply. Her new friend was a Paladin. Cercee smiled.

"Your very good friend Cercee."

When Tanel woke, she had a horrible head ache and a terrible taste in her mouth. She also had a very plush pillow and a soft blanket on a bed that felt unfamiliar. She sat up suddenly. She was in a tidy parlor and the sun shone in through the tall windows. She rubbed her eyes, scratched her head, stood and stretched. Then she looked around.

"Where the hell am I?" she asked loudly to no one in particular.

Tanel heard foot steps and wheeled around, regretting it instantly. She grabbed her head and felt for the chase.

"You're up," a feminine voice said flatly.

Tanel opened her eyes. The young woman who stood in the arched doorway was carrying a tray. She was well dressed and her long reddish hair was loose, so in all likely hood, she wasn't a servant. She set it on the table next to her.

"Where am I?" Tanel tried again.

Cercee sighed. She had no idea paladins were such trouble. "You are at my home," she said. She raised an eyebrow and grinned slightly. "Don't you remember anything from last night?"

Tanel tried very very hard to remember. She went white as a sheet. "Oh, oh, I'm sorry," she stammered. "If I did...ANYTHING...oh hells." She sat down hard.

Cercee smiled, "Don't worry, I believe I saved you from some measure of embarrassment."

Tanel looked up at her. She had extended a steaming mug and smiled. "Here you are, drink this. I assure you it will help."

Tanel took it and sniffed. "It smells alright."

Cercee looked slightly offended. "Of course it does. Drink it."

The young paladin sniffed one more time. "Who are you again?"

The young woman sat down on the chase next to her. "Cercee," she said. "We met last night, outside of the inn?"

"The inn?" Tanel started, then her evening came flooding back to her in graphic detail. She groaned audibly and drank the tea she had been offered more out of a reflexive habit than any real awareness. "Ow, ow...hot."

Cercee rolled her eyes.

"The sentinel!" Tanel went on, then she gasped. "Oh! You, you did! You put me in a carriage! Oh, if my father had found out where i had been..." she trailed off ominously.

Cercee smiled. "Well, I'm sure he will be understanding."

'You don't know my father."

'I meant the sentinel," Cercee said. She tilted her head and smiled at tanel. "Your father?"

"Lord Aegis," she groaned. "Well," Cercee said, standing, "I certainly won't tell him. I was about to have breakfast, would you care for some?"

Tanel nodded slightly, feeling a little better than when she woke up. she followed Cercee into the kitchen, where there was a tray of cakes and pastries as well as fruit.

There was more hot tea and wine as well. Cercee sat at the table and indicated that Tanel should do the same. Tanel took in the spread.

"Where's the bacon?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

Cercee looked at her and frowned. "I don't cook," she said flatly.

"Oh," Tanel realized she had been insulting to her host. "No, I'm sorry. This is great," she sat down and took two cakes and a piece of melon.

"Wine?" Cercee offered.

"Oh hells, yes," Tanel said, relieved to be offered the hair of the dog.

Cercee tilted her head, "You are a paladin?"

Tanel looked slightly embarrassed as she downed the wine. "We aren't all as stuffy as people seem to think," she said.

Cercee smiled.

Tanel looked around, "what about you?" then with sudden realization and curiosity she asked, "What were you doing at the tavern last night?"

Cercee frowned slightly, "It was completely accidental I assure you."

"What will happened when your parents find out?"

Cercee was quiet for a moment before she said, "they won't."

Tanel shrugged but didn't press the issue.

They ate quietly for a while before Tanel asked, "So, you don't cook, what do you do?"

"I am a student at the Arcanum," Cercee said automatically.

Tanel nodded. That explained the attitude, she thought. "What do you study there?"

Cercee looked at her. Surely she was being polite.

"Are you asking what path of magic I am studying?" she asked.

Tanel nodded, her mouth full of cheese. Cercee was relieved. She hated to think that her new paladin was daft.

"I am partcial to fire," she smiled.

Tanel's eyes widened. "Really?"

Cercee nodded, but did not want to be the focus of the conversation. "Tell, me, have you been in the Order long?"

Tanel took a piece of bread off the plate, "Yes and no. My father insisted I join. I guess he intended it for a while, but it has only been a few years, really. I joined the initiates just the other day, officially."

"Is that what you were celebrating?"

Tanel nodded.

Cercee smiled. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Tanel said cheerily as she pulled apart a sweet roll. "Hey these are good."

Cercee nodded, "From the baker down the street. Is it very difficult?" she asked, taking a sweet roll for herself.

"The initiate trials?" Tanel rolled her eyes and groaned, "Incredibly. The whole point is to weed out the inferior."

Cercee frowned slightly. Tanel noticed and blushed slightly.

"I don't mean that the people are inferior," she explained, "Just that they aren't ready for knighthood."

"Oh, no," Cercee said, somewhat surprised, "I think that is very wise. I'm sure there are some who are not cut out to be paladins."

Tanel blinked. "You do? Most people think the order is a bit stuck up that way."

Cercee smiled. She did indeed think the order was a bit stuck up that way, but it didn't mean she disagreed. either way, she wasn't going to share that with her guest.

"I'm sure you're a fine candidate," she said, offering Tanel more wine. She declined politely.

"I really should be getting back," Tanel said, taking one more pastry for the road. She stood, Cercee stood. The two young women stared at each other for a moment.

"Thanks again," Tanel said. "And no one really needs to know about..."

Cercee smiled, "It never happened."

Tanel smiled back, relieved. "That's great," she offered a polite curtsey to Cercee, who returned it, and they walked to the door.

"If you find yourself by Falcon Wing Square," Tanel said as she left, "you should stop and say hello."

Cercee smiled politely. "I'll remember that. Pleasure to have met you, paladin."


	13. Chapter 13

The road was clear and the trip not too far. She had never had to do much of her own trading, but as her studies progressed, gathering what she needed was easier to to on her own, especially as the materials were becoming more and more questionable. The garden did not grow fast enough to keep up with the baker's wife's requests.

The plants she needed could be found near the lake. She stayed the night in Suncrown and had gotten up before dawn to go looking for the lake plants. It had to be early, the blooms faded quickly, before mid morning and then they would be useless.

She stood near the treeline, looking at the water, eyeing it for the blossoms that would break the water's surface. She started to walk around the water. The little purple blossoms hung over the water, the long green stems disappearing under the blue. She pulled off her slippers and rolled up her skirt, tucking it into the belt that held her knife. She slogged out into the marshy waterline.

It wasn't until she heard the splash that she realized she was not alone. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she looked to see the troll across the water. She cursed under her breath for having been so unprepared. He grinned at her, pulled an axe from his belt and drew back his arm. He was expecting her to run, do fall, to cry. He was not expecting her to throw her arms in the air. He took it as a good shot for him and threw the axe.

Much like when the shade had struck out at her, the demon armor proved most effective. The axe hit the purplish haze that surrounded her and slowed, pushed just enough to the side to graze her ribs, but do no more. The troll looked irritated. Cercee looked more so.

She started casting again, immediately. Her practice with fire magic still her most ready cast. The wave of flame washed across the water as if it where following a trail of straw and oil and hit the troll before he could step away. He was surprised, but not badly hurt. He drew his second axe and started to stalk around the lake, muttering in a language she didn't understand.

Cercee took a step back, her feet mired in the mud. She cursed again, but not over her position. She cursed the troll. He frowned, his movements slowed by unseen hands that dragged at his feet. But his target didn't flee, instead, she started to chant. Her fingers traced intricate patterns in the air and he recognized that she was casting. He pressed into a run, intent to end her before she could finish her spell. He was mere steps away when, sweat running down her face, an eruption of purple and black burst from her fingertips and screamed into the trolls chest. A triumphant smile crossed her face, but her attacker was not finished. Clutching his chest, he glowered at her and continued, preparing again to throw his last weapon. She cast another curse and he doubled over in pain. Cercee's heart beat in her ears, adrenaline rushed through her and she took a step toward the troll, another rush of shadow slamming into him. He loosed the axe, but stumbled as he did. Again it flew wide of her by a breath. An intense anger welled in her. This was much more gratifying than killing rats. Still, though, he persisted. And she was getting tired. In a rush of anger and determined force of will, she started pulling the shadow back out of her victim.

She needed the energy, felt the draw of it. She felt the troll pull back in panic, frantically tugging back on his own life force. She pulled harder, and she liked the way it felt. The troll gasped and fell over, his eyes wide and staring at her, unbelieving. She tugged the last bit of life from him, drawing his life energy into hers. It felt different than her own, more raw, more wild. She felt the life force, but more, she felt something more rip free and the troll screamed with awful agony and twitched once before falling silent. Cercee stood panting, sweating, and grinning. She picked her flowers, recovered her shoes and went back to Suncrown.

Her heart was still racing hours later, when she sat at the large desk and began pouring through the tome she had been using for reference. She set on top of it her father's journal. She paged more and more quickly, looking for something that would compare. She reached the end of the journal, and closed it, smiling. Nothing, she had found nothing. He father had never come this far. She breathed deep, still tingling from the rush of the experience.  
>She closed the books and smiled to herself. Changed her clothes and went to meet with the coven.<p>

"You've done something," Owwen said, cocking his head to one side as she passed.

"I've done exactly what I was supposed to," she said, nodding to him pleasantly, but not bothering to stop.

"No," he said, falling in step next to her, "No, something new."

"What is it you want, Owwen," she asked.

"I have your accounts to settle, from the apothecary," he said, "and the order to pay the baker still stands?"

"Of course," she snapped.

"Would you care to have supper while we talk over the month's accounts?"

Cercee turned to look at him, he never asked to be social with her. "What do you need of me? is it really necessary?"

He caught her eye and held it. A wicked gleam crossed his face.

"Something is different," he said in a silky voice, "You've taken a life."

She scowled at him, displeased that he could see that so easily and wondering what it was that gave her away.

"Not just a life," he peered into her eyes deeply.

Cercee met his gaze and stared back, refusing to be intimidated by this shade who was supposed to be her servant. This was part of his game, she had come to expect it. She stared past Owwen's eyes and into the blackness that filled the space the priest once did.

"You've taken a soul."

The shade was nearly insufferable in his delight over her accomplishment. She refused to discuss it with him out in the open, so he came to her home, a stack of papers and books in his arms, bowed pleasantly at the door, insisting she see to her books and taking some pleasure in scolding her for not staying on top of such things.

"I have you to stay on top of such things," she rolled her eyes.

He made a sour face, "My talents are wasted on paperwork."

"You wanted to play Owwen," she said, "This is why I employed him. to see that I was not taken advantage of in my youth."

He grinned, "What an interesting choice of words, given your relationship."

Cercee narrowed her eyes. She should not forget that the shade was privy to Owwen's memories.

"You said my books needed attention?" she said flatly.

He straitened and sighed and set the books in front of her. She read them and signed where he pointed. She never signed anything he gave her without reading it thoroughly. He may be compelled to act in her best interest, but she was under no illusion he did not act in his own.

He folded his hands on the table as he watched her read.

"Tell me," he said in a voice that was not Owwen's.

She looked up from her pen.

"Tell you what?" she clicked.

"What it felt like to steal a soul," he said.

She studied his face for a moment, but he had dropped the facade of playing the priest and his face was a stony mask. She could not tell what his interest was, if he truly had an interest, or if he was just seeking to put her on edge. She could never really tell, with the shade, whether he was trying to help her or drive her from her course in an attempt to nullify his contract. She casually went back to signing the papers.

"Why are you so interested?" she asked.

"It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure," his voice was dark and low and dripping with a greedy quality Cercee had not heard since they first met. "It was a pleasure wasn't it." He didn't ask, merely stated.

Cercee felt her heart quicken. "Yes," she said.

He smiled, a wholly different smile than Owwen.

"They won't be able to help but take you seriously now," he said almost as an aside.

"Who?" Cercee asked, shaking off the memory of the troll.

"The coven," Owwen said, once again "himself". "Whatever test they devise for you will surely change once they realize you are not afraid to cross that line."

She smiled darkly and pushed the stack of papers back to him with a grim face that told him, once again, she was quite resolute in her path. "What line?"


	14. Chapter 14

"Do you know what it is?"

It had never occurred to her, even after her parent's death, to trespass into her father's rooms. The maid had gone through her mother's things, packed delicate items away and seen that Cercee had all of mementos a grieving daughter might need or want. That had all seemed perfectly natural. But no one had bothered her father's rooms. They had kept separate bed chambers. Not too unusual. Still, as she stood at the doorway contemplating that the room had been closed for months now, she was surprised at how nervous she felt. As if even now she was invading something personal and sacred. She humphed into the air. Defying whatever ghosts might be haunting the corners, Cercee let a lantern to float in the room and started to poke around in the corners.

"Yes," Owwen said, but offered nothing else.

They had been hours in the shared library between her parents bed chambers. Here they had kept their more valuable artifacts, studied items and notes. Cercee had never been allowed here, too young and inexperienced for the dangerous pursuits of advanced research and spell craft. Here where all the notes of their trips to other cities, of their successes and failures at learning how others molded the arcane. And of course all of the treasures they had returned with.

"What is it?" she asked, turning it over and over in her hands.

"It is a soul trap," he sighed.

The box looked very like one that sat on the shelf in the study downstairs. It was older, however, and the black, almost gem like stone was not as pollished.

She looked up at him, "I thought the trolls did not deal with the nether."

Owwen rolled his eyes, "Whatever one calls it. You see it as a force to be altered and used," the disdain in his voice was clear. "Others see it as a force to be worshiped." This idea appealed to him.

"The box?" she asked, ignoring his editorializing.

"Being trapped in a box is quite a punishment, wouldn't you think?" he said. His sarcasm was perfect.

"I imagine you would know," she said with no compassion. "How does it work?"

A grin came over his face. Cercee quickly held up her hand.

"Explain to me how it works so I may safely handle it without ill effect to my person," she said in a very business like manner.

Owwen's face fell. "As you wish," he said. "It is intended to test the worthiness of applicants to," he waved his hand as if he couldn't remember the name and it didn't really matter to him anyway, "whatever deity was fashionable." He pointed to the lettering. "Its a curse. The supplicant is offered the box and to prove his loyalty, he reads the script."

Cercee eyed the carvings. "I've read about their religious practices," she said. "I would say your Order could learn from their dedication."

"They are not my Order," he mumbled. "But I would have to agree."

"So the prospective priest curses himself as a show of loyalty and then what?" she set the box on the table and looked at it from a number of angles.

"Then he is left alone with box," Owwen grinned.

"That doesn't sound to terrible," she frowned. "What does the curse do?"

"Why don't you read it and find out?" he suggested with a smile.

"The box draws out his soul?" she said ignoring him.

"No," Owwen said, slightly dejected. He picked the box up and appeared to be reading each side. "It drives the prospective priest slowly insane, offering greater and greater promises until the initiate gives his soul over willingly. The point is to resist for the prescribed amount of time. Presumably a test of will." He put it back on the table in front of Cercee. "Or something along those lines. The idea is ancient."

"Is this one ancient?" she asked.

"Perhaps by your fathers standards," he smiled. He leaned over her shoulder and squinted at the box. "It does appear to have been used."

Cercee almost gasped. "How can you tell?" she asked.

He grinned even though she wasn't looking, "I can feel it."

"How interesting," she said quietly to the box.

"Your father was very interested in the trolls," Owwen said, wandering away from the little table and back to the shelves.

"He was interested in history," she mumbled, pressing her fingers against the box in an attempt to feel the soul Owwen said was inside.

"I got the impression he was only interested in himself," the shade offered, lifting a knife off a decorative stand and inspecting the curved and barbed blade.

Cercee didn't answer right away. "He insisted any culture that could stand for so long, and in the face of such obviously superior odds..."

"Namely you people," Owwen interrupted.

"..must have some advantage."

Owwen smiled at the dagger, "And he was looking for it?"

"Many people look for such advantages in history," she said without offering her opinion in her tone.

The shade lay the dagger down on the table next to the box. "Did he find it?" he asked.

Cercee looked at the dagger but didn't answer the question.

"It goes with the box," Owwen explained. He leaned over her shoulder and pointed to the matching details, explaining in her ear "the prospective initiate was offered the dagger to end his own life should the pressure prove too strong." Cercee turned her head and looked at him. "At least that way," he smiled, "they went to the grave with their soul in tact." She did not return his smile. "Can you imagine the blood this knife has tasted?"

Cercee stood from the table and went back to the shelf, leaving Owwen grinning at her back.


	15. Chapter 15

A servant in a flowing blue robe set the plate of roast foul in front of her. It was golden and perfect and smelled heavenly. Cercee watched as an equally elegant servant placed a plate across the table in front of the stately silver haired elf who sat in the tall stately chair opposite her. She waited until he took up his knife and speared the bird before she began to dine, choosing to start with the wine. Her Grandfather watched her as he started his meal.

"I was very pleased to hear of your apprenticeship," he said after a few bites.

She swallowed and nodded, "Thank you."

"I understand you spend most of your time in study," he continued.

Cercee looked up as she cut her meat, "I have a great deal to live up to."

He seemed to like the answer.

"Not all of it with Thaxeus?" he asked, omitting the formality of the other master's title. Cercee assumed it was intentional, reminding her that he had no reason to call

Thaxeus master.

Cercee smiled at him. "I have taken up alchemy," she said honestly.

"Indeed?" he asked, somewhat amused. "For what purpose?"

"I appreciate the restoratives," she said with a little shrug. She took another bite of foul. It was perfect.

Her Grandfather frowned. "You can't hire an alchemist to make what you need? I know you are not without the funds."

"I prefer to mix my own," she said, again with complete honesty, "Why trust someone else to do it for me?"

He chewed and considered. "It is time consuming," he said, "Thaxeus does not begrudge you the time?"

"He has not," she said.

"If he feels it is worthwhile," Elder Morningray said stiffly. Clearly he did not agree. "You progress in your path?"

"I do," she smiled into the wine.

"Good," he went back to his plate. "I would not see you abandon your studies to a weaker course. There has been talk."

Cercee's hand froze just in front of her mouth. "Talk?"

Her grandfather continued his meal casually. "Talk that Thaxeus is less than am attentive instructor. Talk that you have an interest in a mate..."

"I have no interest in a mate," she huffed, interrupting him. He raised his eyebrows, clearly not appreciating her outburst. She quickly took a bite of her meal.

"Talk that you have no interest in the silvermoon," he continued, "socially."

She continued chewing without speaking.

"You are my last direct relation, Cercee," he said. It wasn't a compliment, or endearment, only a statement of fact, "I expect much. Some of that includes your participation in life beyond your studies." She scowled slightly. He took a sip of wine. "A suitor would not be unacceptable." She looked at him, mild shock on her face. He brushed off her concern, "if only for appearances. If you do not see to it, your mother's family will." It was clear from the look on his face and the tone of his voice he did not approve.

Cercee still looked shocked. "What do you mean?" she asked. Her mind shot back to the letter she had found in the study, written, but never sent.

"They have not contacted you?" he asked calmly.

Cercee stabbed the bird with a little more force than she intended. "This is the first time you have seen me since the services," she said somewhat spitefully, "Why would they take a greater interest?"

"I have responsibilities to the court," he snapped at her, "Your mother's people have far more to gain by inheriting you."

Cercee's face flushed at the idea of being someone else's inheritance. She took a large gulp of wine.

"At any rate," he continued calmly, "It seems they have no legal recourse to step in, at least not yet. However should you falter in your studies, they might."

"How?" she asked. 'And wouldn't you have anything to say about that?"

"I might," he said casually. He looked at her, evaluating, "but if you falter in your studies, why would I?"

The comment hit Cercee like a punch to the chest. She felt the color drain from her face. With effort, she forced her features into a calm smile and picked up her fork.

"You never liked mother," she said. "Why?"

"I don't speak ill of the recently dead," he said.

"Then turn it nicely," she said, echoing his sharp tone.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked a little. "very well," he folded his hands on the table and thought for a moment. "I appreciated the fact that she sought the best. She obviously could not be the greatest, so she made sure she wed better." He watched his granddaughter to see what her reaction would be.

Cercee chewed slowly and watched his face.

They sat in silence for many minutes.

"You want me to be more social," she finally said.

He smiled at her acceptance, "I think you understand what i expect. I will be certain you have the opportunity. as long as you are apprenticed to Thaxeus, you shouldn't have to worry about encroaching obligations from second cousins," he waved his hand with a measure of distaste, "or whatever distant relation they would have you wed." Cercee's stomach turned slightly. He smiled a little as he took a napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth. He stood, suddenly, the meal over. She stood as well.

"The court will be in Silvermoon soon," he said as one of his servants brought a robe, "Your parents would have accompanied me, of course, but now that falls solely to you. I will see that the formalities are dealt with. A strong showing is important for our position in the court. You understand, of course?"

"I do," she said, bowing slightly.

"Good," he nodded curtly and left her with the remains of the meal.

* * *

><p>"I think you should take me," the priest said.<p>

"You've never been to a court occasion," Cercee asked flatly as she walked a pace ahead of Owwen through the halls of the temple.

The invitation had come days earlier, as another of her father's obligations she was expected to maintain, Owwen intersected the envelope.

"No," he said. "I haven't."

She hadn't intended to share the information with Owwen, but when he court came to Silvermoon, it wasn't exactly a quiet affair.

She smiled,"But I know the priest did."

Owwen was quiet for a moment. "A memory isn't the same thing," he finally said with the same tone a spoiled child used when he didn't get his way.

"It isn't all as grand as everyone thinks," she said.

"That sounds like sour grapes," he prodded.

She sighed. "It's music and dancing and a lot of people trying to impress one another."

"Sounds delightful," he said.

"Its boring," she countered.

"Only if you let it be, I'm sure," he said.

"I have no interest in the court. I only went when Father sent for me and I was not nobility so all I did was stand next to him and watch," she stopped walking and turned sharply on him. "Owwen, I am sure, had far different experiences."

The shade's dark eyes glazed over and a wicked grin came across his face. "Yes, I'd say so," he mused. He snapped his attention back to her, "but a first hand taste would be most illuminating."

"I doubt you have any interest in illumination," she rolled, handing him her tribute for the church, bowing slightly and smiling sweetly.

"What kind of a priest would I be if I had no understanding of those I serve," he said with a perfect dose of sincerity.

"A typical one?" she asked.

"So cynical," he said, taking her offering and bowing back. "I wonder where you come by it?"

"It is the company I keep," she said. Then, louder, she said, "Good day, Brother Owwen."

"Wait, wait," he said stepping after her. "I want to go."

Cercee turned on her heel and smiled slowly at the shade. "You are asking me for a favor?"

The flash that he may have made a mistake came over Owwen's face, but he quickly recovered and stiffened slightly.

"No," he corrected, inspecting his fingernails casually. "No, merely stating a fact." He frowned at Cercee, who was clearly pleased at having an obvious upper hand. "Good day, Miss Cercee."

* * *

><p>"You want me to accompany you?" Tribas was clearly shocked. It had been weeks since they had seen one another, and their last parting had been less than cordial. Still, he was a handsome and well thought of apprentice to a well known and ambitious mage of Silvermoon.<p>

"I thought you would enjoy it," she smiled.

He took the invitation from her outstretched hand. It was stitched on starched linen and embossed in gold.

"How did you come by it?" he asked.

"I have attended a few. My father attended with his father," she shrugged. "It is an obligation."

"Interesting burden you bear," he said.

"Oh stop," she chided his tone. "It is at the very least an opportunity to see people," she tilted her head a little, "and be seen."

She could tell by the look on his face that he recognized the opportunity it presented. His face softened a little and he smiled. "I suppose it would not hurt to be in the entourage of the Sunstrider court."

"Precisely," she said, somewhat relieved that he understood her position. "I will have Grandfather's attendants send word, that way there will be no reason your master should refuse you the evening." She looked at him, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. "How are your studies?"

His face clouded, "Well enough."

"But?" she asked, catching a hesitance in his voice.

"Well enough," he said with finality.

Cercee shrugged off his ill temper and deemed the business of her escort settled. "I will see you come the occasion, then," she said.


	16. Chapter 16

"You seem troubled."

Cercee frowned at the text she was reading and rubbed her eyes. Zanien reclined on the lounge nearby and started to light a water pipe he kept handy.

"No," she said rubbing her eyes, he voice unintentionally short. He raised an eyebrow and she sighed. "Nothing important."

Zanien took a few puffs. "A disciplined mind does not hold on to distractions," he said casually.

Cercee frowned at the passage she had been reading for half an hour. Her eyes rolled over the words, but nothing was staying in her mind. She gave up.

"I have a problem," she admitted.

Zanien took another puff from his pipe. She waited for an invitation to continue, but he extended none, so she went on anyway.

"There is a young student. He...," she started. Zanien stopped puffing. He looked genuinely surprised.

"You have a lover?" he asked.

"What? No," she said.

"Oh," he relaxed, "good. Please, continue."

She furrowed her brow and tapped her fingers on the table. "As I was saying, there is a young elf, a mage, we where," she sought to find a word that didn't imply that they were involved somehow and finally settled on, "companions, of a sort. I needed to improve my knowledge of the arcane, he was willing to assist." Zanien grinned, but did not interrupt. "But he has become jealous."

Her instructor sighed, "I had hoped you above such nonsense." He started to retrieve his effects to leave.

"Ugh," Cercee exclaimed, "he isn't jealous of another boy," she said angrily, "he is jealous over my position with Master Thaxeus."

Zanien stopped. "Ahh," he said, obviously relieved, but just as unimpressed, "that sounds terribly adolescent."

Cercee quietly fumed at her concerns being called adolescent. "He is persistent," she said.

"I'm sure," he said.

She frowned at him and went back to her book.

After a few minutes of watching her struggle with her concentration, he finally offer, "Why not just give him what he wants?"

"I'm sorry?" she asked, her turn to be surprised.

Zanien stood and looked at her. "Give him what he wants," he said again.

"He wants my apprenticeship," she said, as if that hadn't been clear.

"You mean the apprenticeship you are maintaining to keep up appearances?" he pointed out.

"I have interest," she said defensively.

"Consider relenting," he said again. "What would happen if you did?"

"My grandfather would disown me," she said.

"Would that be so horrible?" he asked.

Cercee looked at him, shocked.

"I am merely exploring your options, Cercee," he said, finishing his pipe and preparing to leave. "But your distractions are not good for your study, and our practices will not be kind to distraction." He pointed at the book with his walking stick, "You may stop, it isn't doing you any good right now. Return to Thaxeus and I will see you next week."

Her look went from shock to alarm. "Why next week, did I do something," she almost said 'wrong', but finished, "you find fault in?"

He smiled at the dodge, "No, but I do not want you distracted as we advance out current work. I will need your focus."

Experience taught her not to ask too much about the work of the coven. Much like the arcanum, there was an attitude of need to know. Do as you're told until you need to know. Much of the onus to figure these things out fell on the students. The weak naturally weeded themselves out of the ranks.

"Sir," she started slowly, collecting her things. "What did you mean when you said it was good that I didn't have a lover?"

Zanien's expression changed from one amusement to another.

"Tish, Cercee," he said with a casualness she hadn't heard in him, "I am far too old for you."

It was Cercee's turn to be amused. She tilted her head, "That is not what I meant, Master Zanien."

He laughed a little before settling back into the chair opposite her. "You don't ever relax, do you?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Fine," he folded his hands on the table and looked at her, very sincerely. "Lovers are a grave distraction."

"Surely you have a lover," Cercee said without thinking. It was practically a staple of Silvermoon society for any successful adult to have one, or more, romantic entanglements.

"I have had many," he admitted. "As a recreation," he said, "there is nothing wrong with them. I am concerned about your developing unnecessary attachments."

Cercee frowned. "What kind of attachments?"

Zanien leaned back and looked at her, "Don't play stupid, you know exactly what I'm talking about." He leaned back in and pointed at the floor where the last spell circle had been cast. "They will find any weakness to turn on," he said, his voice low and insistent. "they will reach into your soul," Cercee's mind rushed over the feeling of the shade as she passed through him, of his question about Owwen's weaknesses, "they will look for what you are afraid of, what you cling to, that which you are afraid to lose." Zanien's eyes had narrowed to slits, a slightly greenish glow behind them. "They will flood those places and push you apart from the inside," she remembered Owwen's body writhing and screaming under hers as the shade did just that. "And they will do it without mercy." Zanien's face relaxed suddenly. "If they cannot hurt you, they will look to the next victim, often, your thoughts, desires, attachments, can lead them there. We deal in power and corruption, Cercee, because no one can hide from their desires forever and no one is immune from what those powers can do." He stood and tapped the table in front of her. "Not even you."

Cercee sat very still as Master Zanien collected his belongings and started to leave.

"I have no attachments," she said to his back.

"Good," he said without giving it much thought. "You will last longer than most. But a little recreation might do you some good."


	17. Chapter 17

The dress was amazing. Amazing, but not too showy. she was not a vapid debutante, after all. She was part of her Grandfather's entourage, a Magister of the Sunstider court. The colors were of the Arcanum, her Grandfather had sent the fabric, but the style was of her own choosing. She had even ordered her mother's best saddle from the stables so the hawkstrider was equal to the occasion. Tribas smiled as he approached, pulling his own strider up to meet hers. Both mount and rider bowed.

"Did you teach it that?"

"No," he smiled, "the riding instructor did, but I thought it a good trick."

They rode together to the apartments set aside for visiting dignitaries and waited to be received, Tribas's arm extended and Cercee's hand resting lightly on his.

They double tall, oddly narrow doors opened and they were ushered into a greeting hall. Several others milled about the room, drinking wine from tall silver rimmed glasses and talking in quiet tones. Some noticed the young pair and smiled at them. Cercee glanced at Tribas out of the corner of her eye. He didn't seem tense. That was good, she thought, Formal occasions had a habit of bringing out the worst in people. Starting with tension.

"Are these people all your family?" he asked quietly.

"No," she said smiling at the nearest couple. "I've never met them before."

"They seem to know you," he commented.

"No," she turned her smile up to him and whispered. "They're trying to decide if they should know me and how important it is that they find out."

Tribas at first looked surprised, then his face smoothed into a comfortable smile. He took Cercee's hand and moved it up onto his arm, covering her hand in his.

"Tribas," she admonished, "Very forward, again."

"Am I not your escort? I think this evening will be quite fascinating," he said, nodding at the same couple Cercee had acknowledged. "Don't you?"

The door on the far side of the hall opened and those waiting turned to see who would enter from the apartments.

The trio was dressed in regal finery. The lady was tall, and wore a collar as high as her dark hair, with jewels dripping from her neck and wrists. The gentleman on her right was dressed head to toe in crimson and gold and was taller even than his companion. On the other side of the Lady was an older gentleman, his long silver hair fell over his shoulders and his piercing eyes inspected everyone on the room, evaluating what he saw and looking as if he found some fault in all of them. He walked with a slender cane, but it didn't really appear that he needed it. His eyes finally fell on Cercee.

He excused himself from the other two without looking at them and crossed the room, his cane clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. The guests dipped slightly and murmured greetings as he passed them, but he didn't acknowledge them. He stopped in front of the pair, tapping his cane tip as he looked them over.

"Cercee," he finally said.

"Grandfather," she curtseyed.

"And?" he turned to Tribas.

Tribas bowed deeply, "Tri...'

"I was asking my Granddaughter," he said shortly.

"This is Tribas, grandfather," she said pleasantly. Tribas had stiffened and was clearly stung, but Cercee squeezed his arm gently and continued as if Tribas had not been interrupted. "He very graciously agreed to accompany me this evening."

The stately mage lifted his chin and looked down his long nose at the youth. "Very well," he said simply. He turned sharply, his cane clicking on the floor. The other mages smiled and concluded their conversations and the whole procession assembled behind the three Magisters, their families falling in line behind them and proceeded through the inner door and down a long grand corridor to the top of an even grander stair.

"Is that it?" Tribas asked in a whisper.

"Not quite," Cercee said.

"No, I mean is that all he is going to say to us?"

"Who, grandfather?" Cercee shrugged. "Most likely. I think he must approve of you."

"How do you figure that?"

"He did not instruct you to follow him or keep you tongue in your head. He must assume you are smart enough to know that already," she grinned.

"He's said that to you?"

"Oh no," Cercee said, shocked at the idea. "My father taught me quite well how to behave at court, but I have heard him lecture others."

The entire group stood at the top of the stairs. A herald called out their arrival, and they all proceeded to the ballroom floor. They stood, picturesque and statue like, behind the magisters as Lords and Ladies were announced. The Magi made pleasantries as the nobles passed, their families and entourages behind them. Soon the hall was full and all the whispered conversations became an echoing roar. Then, in the midst of the din, another set of doors opened and the hall fell silent. Heralds announced the royal family and the crowd bowed in unison. Then music started and the conversation returned as if an unspoken cue had been called.

"And that is it?" Tribas whispered in Cercee's ear.

"That is all the formalities we need engage in," she said.

Couples were starting to wander onto a large cleared dance floor. Tribas inclined his head.

"Not yet," she said. "The nobility will take the floor first. Manners," she grinned.

"Indeed," he said.

"Different than the fire festival," she sighed.

"Hopefully," he mumbled.

Cercee shot him a pointed look, but his eyes were on the dancers spinning across the polished floor. Once the first set had concluded, the whole of the crowd began to mix and separate from the groups they had arrived with, enchanted decanters poured wine for guests and the music continued to play.  
>Cercee dance with Tribas, they helped themselves to the offered food and drink and made small talk with anyone who happened by.<p>

"You haven't spoken to your Grandfather all evening," Tribas noted when he saw the Magus across the room in deep discussion with a severe looking pair of nobles who hung on his every word.

"Why would I?" she asked, genuinely surprised by his observation.

"Because he is your grandfather?" Tribas asked.

"He is busy," she commented, sipping her wine casually and looking over the crowd. "Besides, he has already seen us, we have done our obligation." She set the wine glass on a passing tray and whirled into the crowd, pulling Tribas behind her. "Now we are here for our own ends," she smiled, straightened her hair and took his arm. With a refined and fixed expression, she made her way toward those she knew the two of them needed to know.

Tribas was dashing, he was charming, he was everything she could have expected in an escort for the evening. He bowed when appropriate, smiled when called for and introduced himself whenever possible. Cercee did the same, graciously accepting condolences from those who had not been at her parents memorials, smiling and nodding and mostly listening to the conversations around them. And they danced. At first, the dances were stiff and formal and she couldn't help but smile at Tribas when he very elegantly bowed to her and followed all the moves he had apparently practiced for the occasion. As the drink continued and the music sped up, there was more dancing and less formality. The guests of honor had retired to a balcony well above the ballroom floor and the guests had started to retreat to cushioned corners and curtained alcoves to relax, talk or otherwise occupy themselves.

Cercee tried many times over the course of the evening to encourage Tribas's interest in the other people around them. There were many Ladies who would be sure to enjoy the company of a handsome young mage for the evening. And certainly he could use the connections. As far as she was concerned, bringing him was a service for both of them.

A passing decanter poured them another glass of wine as it drifted through the group.

"I am pleased you were able to come," an older Lady smiled at the two of them as the conversation continued. "I understand there is little room for social events for our young magi."

Both Tribas and Cercee forced smiles.

"Although I suppose family in high places helps," someone else said.

Cercee kept her smile polite, "I imagine everyone here is graced with some such friend." She felt Tribas's arm tighten under her hand.

Polite laughter filtered around the circle.

"Family never hurts," the Lady said smiling.

Cercee could not agree completely, but she certainly wasn't going to contradict her. Still, she could not resist the urge to add, "Family can only give you the bow, they cannot loose the arrow."

The laughter went around again.

"Well, young Lady," a charming noble said, "You were gifted with quite a bow."

"She isn't an archer," Tribas said suddenly, and slightly over loud.

All eyes in the circle landed on him, including Cercee's.

He hadn't expected the reaction and didn't exactly know what to say. He looked to Cercee for some sort of rescue, but found her eyeing him with a tight jaw and an angry eye.

An slightly uncomfortable silence fell on the group.

"Careful, Tribas," the Lady said, waving her glass at the clearly stung Cercee. "You might find out what kind of an archer she is."

The group laughed and Cercee, suddenly self conscious of her own emotional transparency forced herself to relax and smile, however insincerely.

"The knowledge of the arcane does not lay in a weapon," Tribas amended slowly and carefully. "It must lay in the mage. A mage must be capable on their own."

The circle relaxed considerably and the group nodded and smiled. Tribas let out a barely audible sigh of relief and glanced down at his companion.  
>Cercee had let her hand slide off his arm and took a long sip of her wine without taking her eyes off his.<p>

"Miss Morningray," the Lord on her right smiled, distracting her from the conversation, "perhaps you would enjoy a dance?"

Cercee peeled her eyes off Tribas's and looked at the noble in his finery. When she smiled, it was genuine. "I think I could enjoy a dance."

Without excusing herself from the circle, or her companion, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

Tribas watched with disbelief. The circle dissolved behind him, save the Lady at the center.

"Allow me this dance, won't you?" she asked. "I am most interested in a students point of view of the academy." Tribas straightened and turned to her. "Tell me about your studies, Tribas," she smiled, "while we dance."

He looked back at Cercee, bowed to the Lady, and escorted her to the floor.

The dancing continued, Cercee allowed her frustration to be cooled as she changed partners with each dance. She passed Tribas and the Lady several times, each time he seemed in deep conversation with her. She took it as a good sign. The dancing gave way to low music and conversations drifted to the low couches and cushions that had been placed around the ballroom as the evening progressed. Cercee found herself in an unlikely discussion of the current boundaries the Amani held to the east and what was the court doing about it on the one hand and how could the Amani possibly be any real consideration with the events unfolding just to the south on the other. Politics held little interest for her, but when the conversation turned to the tactics employed by the orc magi, she pricked her ears.

"Please," the Lord knight who stood by the couch said, indicating Cercee, "Have some respect for the young lady."

"Your son is soon to be in the campaign," another said, nodding toward Cercee's most recent dancing partner, "they will not have any choice but listen."

The knight frowned but couldn't disagree.

"They are barbaric," another continued. "An affront to civility."

"War is not civil, madam," the knight said, confident he knew his ground on the topic.

"How long before the Amani join them?" someone asked in a slightly frantic and likely inebriated panic.

"The Amani are not aligned with the Horde," the young gallant behind Cercee commented.

"Yet."

"It isn't likely to happen, the trolls are primitive, tribal. They can't organize against the Farstriders, much less the Alliance."

The group laughed.

"The magic they employ is tainted, but on a scale unlike anything I have seen," the knight said.

"They will fall apart, just like any primitive invasion."

"They are taking their time about it."

Cercee listened to the conversation of war weave around her. She wanted to ask the knight what he had seen, to know what evidence he had of black magic among the orcs, and how vile, and how far from the arcane their practice ran. Perhaps if she could get him alone, she thought, she could convince him to share his stories.

"Are we invading?" a light voice inquired.

"Not at all, Lady Ixali," the knight bowed. Cercee turned to see the Lady who had so enthralled Tribas, her young dance partner staying a respectful step behind. The gentlemen bowed, Carcee stood and curtseyed slightly.

"Thank you, my dear," she said to Cercee, "for lending me your charming friend." Tribas stepped forward and bowed. "I seem to have taken his whole evening."

Cercee said, "I'm sure you make finer company than I."

The Lady smiled and turned to Tribas. She held out her hand. He took it and kissed the back before sitting. She smiled at Cercee.

"Young Tribas and I have been engaged in the most interesting conversation about family," she said, settling herself into the conversation.

"We were discussing the Amani," the lord said by way of protest.

"I would be most interested to hear of your service," Cercee started quietly to the knight.

He smiled, "Why would you want to hear that? It is gruesome and completely inappropriate for a lovely young lady such as yourself."

Ixali was not dissuaded by the lack of interest the others were taking in her. She continued, "The Amani have been nothing more than pests for years..."

"I doubt the eastern towns would take that view," someone said.

"Perhaps what we need is a stronger presence of the magi?" she suggested, smiling at Tribas.

"Are you suggesting we send the students?"

There was general laughter.

"I don't think that is a matter for jest," the knight said.

"Have you encountered them?" Cercee asked, trying to lead the conversation toward the trolls magical practices.

The older knight smiled, "What would possess you to be so curious about such nightmares?"

"I can't imagine you'd be so eager to run into battle after what happened..," The words "to your parents" never fell out her mouth, but they didn't have to. Worse, they hung out in front of Lady Ixali's perfect smile like bait. Even the seasoned courtiers were shocked by the lack of tact. "But you are partial to flame, I understand?" Ixali continued with a smile. "Perhaps that is more suitable to the tactics of the Horde." She took a sip of her wine.

"I would suggest, Lady, you consult someone who has fought before making such assumptions," the knight stepped in, insulted by the Lady's tone.

"But if the arcane does not seem to slow them," Ixali feigned distress, "then a baser magic might be needed." Cercee's face had gone red. "Bailas was an archanist, wasn't he?" She leaned back to consult Tribas and inquired, "Do magical talents run in the blood? Your mother," she turned back to Cercee, "she was a fire practitioner?"

"No," Cercee said. "She was also an archanist."

"Really? I wonder where your exceptional talent comes from," the Lady grinned as she sipped her wine.

It had been phrased as a compliment, but the underlying implication was a slap in the face. Cercee looked at Tribas for some sign that he was just as vexed as she was, and found none. His face was tight and still.

"Lady Ixali," one nobleman admonished, "Clearly you have indulged too much."

"Come, Miss Morningray," the younger knight offered her his hand, "Allow me this dance."

"No thank you," Cercee declined, "I believe I would have a dance with Tribas."

Tribas looked slightly surprised, glanced at Ixali, who shrugged. He stiffly offered Cercee his arm, which she barely touched as she passed him. He followed without further word to the company.

"You realize insulting your host is generally considered bad form when at any gathering?" she turned on him sharply.

"I said nothing," he replied.

"You refuted nothing she said."

Tribas was silent.

"I had thought we could both benefit from this company," she said.

"I have," he nodded toward the group they had just left, "Lady Ixali is very interesting."

"She implied my lineage is less than legitimate," she hissed.

"Is that what she said?" Tribas asked lightly.

Cercee blinked at him in disbelief. "You cannot be this daft," she fumed.

Tribas's demeanor changed. His brow furrowed and he leaned in, his voice angry. "She makes a very salient point. You are not a natural archanist," he growled.

"There is no credence to the thought that magic runs any specific way in the bloodlines," she forced back. "I am a mage because I was raised to be, you are a mage because your parents paid your way into the arcanum."

"I am gifted," Tribas said, stung by her insult.

"You and half the school," she snapped.

Tribas narrowed his eyes, "What would your grandfather say if you were not Bailas's child? You would have no claim to your father's apprenticeship."

"I have no claim to it now except that it was offered to me!" Her voice was struggling to stay low.

"The Lady makes very solid arguments for bloodlines," he sat back on his righteousness.

"It is a false assumption and you are a fool to place any value in it," Cercee remembered Master Zanien's advice, "and if you are so interested, go ask him for it."

Tribas looked surprised. He was quiet for a moment.

Cercee took his silence as a victory. He couldn't be all that brave, or sure of himself, when it came right down to it. They danced stiffly until the music stopped, bowed formally to one another and then retreated to opposite ends of the hall, as if the distance might somehow reverse the damage already done.


	18. Chapter 18

"I cannot help but notice you are not yourself,"

Cercee shot a piercing glare at Owwen as she dropped her tythe into the little alms shrine at the temple. She was late, having spent the small hours of the morning tearing the life from voles in the garden to ease her anger after parting company with Tribas the night before.

"Very kind of you to notice, brother," she seethed politely, "but your concern is unwarented."

"But concern is my job," he said, nodding to a parishoner who walked past, "and yours above all," he grinned. Then quietly he added, "Perhaps I would have been a better escort after all."

She blinked at him, unable to hide her shock.

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged, "I am, at least, better behaved."

"Stop it," she hissed under her breath.

"That would be unpriestly," he said, enjoying her discomfort. "Now come," he said a little louder, "why don't you walk with me to the gardens and we can discuss what might be troubling you."

She rolled her eyes, knowing he would only pester her until he got to play the role, so she bobbed a slight courtesy and they started a stroll toward the gardens.

"You will stop this immediately," she said once they were out of earshot of any passers by.

"You don't mean that," the shade said, his playing done.

"How dare you," she started. Her annoyance with the ball was clearly overrunning her patience with Owwen, she knew it, and so did he. "What gives you the idea you can talk to me this way?"

An odd look crossed the shade's face. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together. Cercee's eyes narrowed.

"Owwen," she said, sweeter than he deserved, "What DOES give you the idea you can talk to me this way?"

Owwen's face went red. His eyes went black and she thought she heard him grinding his teeth. He glanced around the garden.

"Perhaps you do not wish to discuss this here?"

"Oh," she said, her mood suddenly lightened, "Over dinner, then, Brother?"

He fidgeted.

"I insist," she smiled.

"As you wish, Miss Cercee," he bowed and swept quickly back into the halls of the temple.

"Indeed," she said to his back as she marched off to into Sunstrider square.

* * *

><p>"It is base rumor," the maid said to a distracted Cercee. She turned her eyes up to the pleasant face. In her heart, Cercee knew her mother's devoted attendant would be her complete champion in any question of Madame Morningray's propriety, but the mere fact that others were defending her somehow made her feel worse.<p>

"So you heard it as well?" she asked. "How lovely."

"You mustn't listen to such talk."

"I don't," Cercee lied. "Everyone else seems to, however. Apparently there is no better entertainment that propagating base rumors."

The maid blushed and hurried back through the hall. Cercee sighed after her. She shook her head and went back to her book. She was late. Master Thaxeus would be furious. Hastily collected her notes and books, she took two small vials from a locked cabinet and stepped out of the house and into the street. She had elected to deal with the disastrous end to the ball by burying herself in her studies. She had been unable to sleep after she parted ways with Tribas at the gates of the hall and drank the last of her bloodthistle tea to spend hours locked in her father's bed chamber pouring over the puzzlebox and wondering how she might get Tribas to read the curse. She had given it up as beneath her, but found her fascination with the box did not abate with her dreams of retribution. She had made her appointments the next day, but couldn't shake either the eyes of other students or the thoughts of a hundred trapped souls caught in a box for eternity. She delved deeper into her fathers studies when she arrived home near midnight.

She drank a restorative without benefit of a chaser and rushed through the wakening streets toward the Arcanum.

She considered, as she approached Thaxius's suite, if she might drink a potion that might allow her to slip in unseen, could she convince him she had been there since sunrise? She smiled and let the thought go, allowing instead to simply take her lumps.

"This is the second day," he said as she rounded the corner of the hall and nearly ran into him in the door.

She took a deep breath. "Yes, sir, I know."

She stood and waited for him to let her pass. He did not.

"That's all?" he said, "No explanation?"

"You did not ask for one," she said simply. "And I understand that there is no acceptable reason for my tardiness."

He raised an eyebrow at her, glared at her for a moment more, and then stepped back into his chambers, leaving the door open for her to follow. She let out her breath and started her morning duties as quickly as she could. She put her books and papers down on the small desk provided for her and started making tea.

"What kept you?" Thaxeus finally asked.

"I was studying," she said, setting a stack of letters on his large desk and putting a set of inks on a tray.

"Indeed," he scoffed.

"Truly," she said flatly.

Thaxeus leaned back in his chair. "What were you studying?"

Cercee frowned at the parchments she laid out, unsure if she wanted to share that with her master.

"I was reading my father's papers," she finally said.

He poured himself some tea.

"It must have been interesting," he said.

"I have never found my father's work boring," she said as she sat down and started transcribing his notes.

He stirred the tea as he watched her begin her read a line of text.

"What unwrapped you so?" he asked as she began to copy onto her own parchment.

Her quill hovered just a moment over the page before she started to write. "He had written some observations on how the trolls defend against arcane magic," she said as she scratched. She dipped the quill again.

"Oh?" he blew on the cup, she started writing again. "What did he observe?"

Cercee didn't stop writing, nor did she look up when she asked, "He did not share his observations with you?"

Thaxeus frowned at her frankness.

"He did most of his research after he left my direct tutelage," Thaxeus explained.

"Well," Cercee said as she scribed, "much of what I have found is fragmented. The more involved he became in the affairs of Silvermoon and Quel'Danas," she frowned over her work, "the less careful he was with his own notes."

"Indeed?" he sniffed as he sipped, "That doesn't sound like your father."

"It wasn't," she said sharply. He stopped sipping. She conspicuously went back to her work.

"You think something ailed him?" he asked casually after a moment.

His pupil didn't answer right away. "No," she finally said. "I think something seduced him."

Thaxeus scoffed, set his tea down and came to stand behind her. He looked over her shoulder as she smoothly penned.

"I can assure you," he said, dismissive of her concern, "Your father made no dalliances."

Cercee looked up long enough to let Thaxeus know she doubted his assessment. "I'm sure he was quite careful," she said dryly as she sprinkled a little sand over the paper, waved her hand over it to set the ink, then blew it off, "But I wasn't speaking of a lover." She set the page aside.

"Oh?" he asked picking up the page and looking it over for mistakes. He frowned as he found none. "Then what?"

"Promises," she said into the next page.

"Promises," he repeated, laying the page next to her and returning to his tea, his tone again dismissive. "Promises of what."

The ink dripped heavy on the page as Cercee answered. "Promises he would be able to make a difference."

Thaxeus stopped what he was doing and watched his pupil for a moment. Their conversation had not kept her from transcribing perfect notes, but clearly the turn of the topic had driven into her. Her knuckles were white as they gripped the quill and her shoulders were tense as she leaned over the desk. He set the tea on the table.

"You know there is no credence to the rumor," he said.

Cercee stopped writing.

"So it is vexing you," he sipped.

She turned in her seat.

Thaxeus grinned at her, "I pay more attention to the whispers in the halls than people think." He took off his dressing robe and put in one more suitable to work. Cercee frowned at him. "And rumors will always circle the halls here," he walked to a wall libned with shelves and took down a wooden case. He removed a small golden cup and two matching candle holders which he held in one hand like wine glasses. "Didn't your parents tell you that?" He motioned for her to retrieve the cup and turned toward another room.

Surprised, she rose quickly, leaving her work unfinished, scooped the cup from where it sat and followed him.

"Fill it," he said, pointing to a basin of water on a decorative stand that set just outside a smaller arched doorway. He pushed aside the heavy curtain and stepped through. She dipped the cup and carried it in behind him.

"Don't spill in here," he turned sharply and she stopped abruptly, managing to keep the water in the cup. He looked from the cup to the floor skeptically, checking for drips, then nodded approvingly before stepping to the center of the room.

Cercee looked around. It was a small room. Her Mother's dressing room was larger, and there was only one article of furniture here, a small circular, she would call it a table, but it looked more like a bush that had grown to be a table. It looked very out of place in Thaxeus's sculpted marble apartment. Indeed, it looked as if it had grown right up out of the floor. he set the candle holders one on either side, then turned and held out his hand for the cup. She stretched it forward to him.

"As a rule," he said, "the masters tend not to mingle with the students." he set the cup in the center and from somewhere in the folds of his sleeve produced two short candles, setting one in each holder. "To be honest," he said, "we have better things to do than police your squabbles." He waved a hand and the candles leapt to life. "But, it is important that we know what's going on." he turned to look at her. He seemed to be contemplating a choice. "You no longer live at the school so I feel you are not in danger of giving this away, but what I am about to show you does not leave this chamber." Cercee's eyes widened a little but she nodded mutely.

He narrowed his eyes, but nodded back, then stepped to the other side of the "table". He motioned for her to move closer.

He waved a hand over the cup, made a brief incantation, gestured over the cup, then waited.

At first, nothing happened. Cercee looked from the cup to Thaxeus, overwhelmed with the urge to ask questions, but knowing that to do so would interrupt whatever spell was taking place, so she stood stone still. Slowly, the glow from the candles spread until a light loomed between the candles. Slowly, murmurs could be heard. She could make out what looked like the walls of the grand dining hall through the flames. Thaxeus motioned for her o come closer. She stepped to the table and looked down upon the little ritual, suppressing a gasp as she gazed into the glow. From the new perspective, she could see a sprinkling of students gathered at a long table for the morning meal as if she were sitting on one of the chandeliers that hovered near the vaulted ceiling. Their voices drifted up from the rippling water in the cup. Cercee looked up at Thaxeus with a mixture of surprise and delight. She squinted at the image to see who sat below. Thaxeus snapped his fingers, the candles sputtered and the image disappeared. Thaxeus picked up his tools and left the room as abruptly as he had entered.

"You see," he said as he led the way back to his main study, "I have heard the rumors."

"I thought there were rules about that sort of thing," Cercee said quietly.

He smiled, "It is a public place. If people are foolish enough to speak in public halls about what they wish to keep private, it is their sorrow."

"Practical," she mumbled.

"Now," he said turning sharply. "There will be no more tardiness. Complete that scroll and then I wish you to discuss the history of the arcane defense of the Southern Gate."

"Thats a novice's primer," she said taking her seat.

"If you cannot be on time, clearly you need the most basic educational refresher," he said.

She sighed.

"And I am surprised that you are so bothered by the rumors," he sat again. "You're relations with your peers have been less than cordial and your competitive nature only fuels that. It may see you well on your path, but will gain you no friends."

"I don't need friends," she said, continuing the writing.

"It will gain you no allies, then," he said. "But," his tone softened a little, "I can assure you, you are your father's daughter." He mumbled as he returned to his tea, "He did not see the benefit of reviewing the basics either."

* * *

><p>This time, when Owwen showed himself at the door of her home, it was without glee. If a shade could imitate morose, it had learned it well. This time, it was Cercee who took delight in the game. She invited him in and offered him tea. She had even set out a meal for the two of them and she was halfway through her own, engaging in completely meaningless small talk when he finally said, "Will you get on with it already?"<p>

She lay her fork down, mock surprise on her face. "I beg your pardon, Brother?"

His face darkened, "Do not mock me."

Cercee leaned over the table, "How dare you. Lets talk about mockery, you are nothing but mockery."

The shade smiled, that dark, un Owwen smile. Cercee didn't wait for him to gloat, "Tell me why you think you can get away with commanding me in public. You are my servant, not the other way round."

The shade, for the first time that evening, picked up the fork and began to eat, delicately, and with Owwen's perfect manners, but his eyes were still black sphere's and the voice he spoke with was not the priest's.

"True, I am your servant, but you should pay careful attention to the fulfillment of our arrangement."

Cercee leaned back and straightened. "That did not answer my question."

"Ask it again," it said.

She forced her face not to flush. "What about our arrangement allows you to talk to me that way in public."

"Ah, there you are. I think I can, because I can," he said.

"That is not an answer," she fumed.

"Keep your temper, Mistress," he suggested with a smile.

Cercee forced her ire to calm. He would only answer a well hprsed question, only one that he was obligated to and he could not lie to her overtly. She thought carefully about what he said.

"Because you portray Owwen," she said.

He nodded.

"Do you think that is how Owwen treated me?" she asked slightly indignant.

The shade grinned. "He had a slightly different perspective on your relationship."

"And this is your interpretation?" she asked.

Again the shade grinned. "I am only fulfilling your command. To be Owwen completely."

Cercee took a bite of her dinner and watched the shade carefully.

"What would happen if I commanded you to be Owwen a little less completely?" she asked him.

The shade paused, Owwen's body frozen very oddly as the shade contemplated.

"Why don't you try it and find out?" he finally said.

"that isn't an answer," she pounced. "What would happen?"

"It would not be in your best interest," it said.

"Why not?" she pressed.

He was struggling to keep his answers vague. "Because it would be contrary to our original pact," he finally said.

"Which is?"

"To be Owwen completely," he said, grinning again. He settled back to his meal, convinced he had managed to circle around the questions.

Cercee picked up her utensils and continued to eat as well. "What happens if you break our pact?" she asked casually.

"I can not," he replied, equally casual.

Again there was silence.

"What would happen if I did?"

They both stopped eating.

She waited for his answer.

"I would have thought you'd figured that out by now," he said.

"I have," she said acidly. "I want to hear it from you."

Owwen stabbed the salad viciously. "You are such a morbid creature," he observed.

"Tell me what happens if I break our pact, and what constitutes that break," she demanded.

He lay his fork down and wiped his mouth. "You were wise enough not to lay your soul down for your little parlour trick," he said. Then his face twisted into a wicked grin, one that never would have crossed the priest's face on even his darkest day. "You did however place your body very central in that ritual," he searched her features for any kind of reaction. "It would become mine."

Again, they sat in silence. She picked up her fork and speared a piece of tomato.

"If I overtly interfere with your playing the priest," she said calmly.

His eyes folded back into the green sheen of Owwen's and he reached for a cup of tea. "Correct," he said.

She nodded, her heart pounding in her ears, she said smoothly, "So long as we understand each other."


	19. Chapter 19

Cercee had developed a particular paranoia that served her well when dealing with nether creatures. She always assumed now that something was watching her. The nether could be so hard to spot, elves hiding in the shadows hardly seemed like anything to worry about. She walked right past Tribas as he hovered behind her.

"More lessons?" he asked.

She wheeled around. "Tribas," she said, composing her voice to sound pleasantly surprised. "What are you doing here?" she looked up and down the empty street. How she had not noticed him? She smiled back up at him, only to find his face set in a stone cold glare.

"I have come to see how your studies progress," he said.

"Fair," she said without emotion. "And yours?"

"I will outpace my master by the end of the year," he said.

"You have always been talented that way," she said, one corner of her mouth quirking up into a smirk. He stepped close to her.

"That should not be the case," he said in a harsh whisper. "Would not be, if Thaxeus had made a wiser choice."

Cercee narrowed her eyes. "Jealousy does not become you," she said.

"You are no where near the arcanist he should have by his side," he retorted.

At first, Cercee flared. Her heart raced with anger, her cheeks flushed. Shadow crackled around her fingertips and she could feel the blood rushing through her ears. A slow smile spread across Tribas's face.

"But perhaps he was not interested in having an arcanist?" he prodded.

The anger rushed out of her as quickly as it rushed in, replaced by disbelief. "What are you implying?"

"You have taken up many interests, it seems," he said. "Alchemy and priests only two of them?"

Cercee rolled her eyes, disgusted. She turned away from him and continued on her way. "That is base, Tribas," she said. "And beneath you."

Tribas stepped quickly in front of her. "But true," he said.

Cercee glared at him. "What of it?" she said. "I do not believe your interest have been always on your studies."

"I do not use my lovers to advance my station," he spat.

"So you simply use them?" she asked. He made a motion as if he might strike her, but caught himself just outside of a flinch. "You are mistaken, at any rate. Master Thaxeus's interest was just as surprising to me, but I would have been foolish to turn it down." She stepped around him to keep her pace.

"So you send your priest to distract him? Is that how he has managed not to notice you are not the student you should be?"

Cercee stopped in her tracks and turned to face Tribas. She looked at him calmly, attempting to discern what exactly he wanted her to admit to.

"You are spying on the masters then?" she asked. "Their friendship is also a great surprise to me," she continued, watching his face to see how he would react. "Believe me, I had no desire to see it blossom." She walked back toward him, but not too close. "What do you want, Tribas?"

He stepped very close, uncomfortably close. "I want you to admit you should not have the position you do. I want you to step aside."

She scoffed. "You would not, why should I?"

Again, he smiled. "Because I don't believe you are truly pledged to Master Thaxeus."

"We are all only truly pledged to ourselves, Tribas, you included," she snapped.

"That's treasonous," he stepped closer.

"Its true," she glared at him. "If you were any less concerned with yourself, you wouldn't be so angry at me for the position I have taken." She looked him up and down, "Besides, your interest in me was only to learn the fire magic you lacked."

For a brief second, he seemed slightly hurt. "And your interest in me was only as a tutor?"

Cercee didn't answer right away and his hurt turned to fury.

"Whore!" he hissed.

Cercee's mind raced between indignation and outright denial. Whatever she was, that was not how she saw it. She opted for indignation and turned on her heel. "I am late, Tribas," she said simply, and hurried on her way.

A confident smile spreading over his features, Tribas watched her go before retreating the way he had come.

* * *

><p>"What does he know?" she paced through her father's study, now her own, with her hands behind her back, tracing her steps since the ball. What else had she given away?<p>

Owwen watched her, a bemused smile on his face.

"I have barely been off my path for weeks," she frowned. "And neither has he."

She stopped pacing at the desk and rest her finger on the finished surface, inspecting the reflection of her polished nails. She looked up at the priest.

"Why are you smiling?"

"You have your father's mannerisms," he grinned. She scowled, which only made his smile grow. "I don't know why it offends you so," he continued, returning his eyes to the ledger he was concluding, "It is not as if he was completely without merit."

"No," she said, tapping the table and taking a seat. "He did see that we were well set up."

"We?" Owwen asked sweetly.

"Mother and me," she said, rolling her eyes at the idea she would include him in any sentiment. "He just omitted a will of any kind."

"That seems very careless," Owwen said casually.

"It does, yes," she mumbled, only half listening as she continued to trace in her mind any time Trebas might have seen her outside of the academy walls.

"Not like him at all," Owwen continued, starting to collect his papers and prepare to return to the temple.

"No," she stopped and looked at him. He smiled. "No it really wasn't."

Owwen shrugged, bowed, and left her with the second puzzle, delighted.

* * *

><p>Sweat was dripping from Cercee's forehead. It ran down her face and under her collar. Her knuckles were white as she pressed them into her thighs to keep her concentration. Behind her, Zanien watched, his arms folded and his brow crossed. The acolytes sat around the floating crystal in the center of the room. For Cercee, it was much like the little tower of flame that she and Tribas had tussled about. The game was much the same, control the energy and protect yourself from a backlash. The consequences were more dire, however, and the exercise not merely one of practice. One student already lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The acolytes weren't watching each other, but they heard their companion fall. No outcry, just a whimper as he collapsed. No one attended him. Across from Cercee, behind the other acolytes who wrestled with the energies lashing out from the focus of the ritual, was a dark haired witch who, much like Zanien, watched the process with a grim face.<p>

Something took notice of them. Between the shadowy rifts a very solid form began to move. A massive claw with wicked talons reached through the rift, feeling and pushing, looking for what might be on the other side.

Zanien yelled to his companion, who snapped back, but what they where saying was lost in a rush of air and sparks that were suddenly sucked into the opening. The sudden shift of pressure pulled the air from the lungs of the chanters closest to it. The nearest acolyte clutched her throat and coughed violently, blood pouring suddenly from her nose. The rift opened and a second claw pushed its way in. Zanien had lept into the open gap left by the girl who was now turning colors, but no one could stop to aid her. They all knew if her position in the ring faltered, whatever was attempting to gain entrance would kill them all anyway. One loss, even two, was acceptable.

With Zanien in the circle, his companion took up the scryers position and both halves of the ritual. Her voice was frenzied and her eyes had started to glow with a deep and sickly green. Flares of fell fire flicked into the air and, had anyone but Zanien been able to observe, they would have seen the concern and wear on her face.

"I am done!" she screamed, falling backward. "Close the rift!"

Zanien shouted a one word command and all of the acolytes stopped chanting at once, falling forward as they had been taught and throwing their energies into the rift to cause it to collapse upon itself. Of course, they had not planned on the rift being half full of a massive red skinned demon.

Fell fire ripped from Zanien's left hand and shadow bolts from his right, one after the other forcing the creature back into the nether. A curse and a bolt of fel energy that looked like a small meteor struck the creature and again the fel flame. With a muffled roar it fell back into the hole and the rift closed with a flash and a crack that left everyone's ears ringing. Zanien held a defensive posture for one second, a shadow bolt twisting around his fists, ready to be released, but he let it dissipate, the soul that fueled it lost to the shadows with a barely noticed wail. He straightened and crossed through the circle to his fallen companion. She accepted his aid to the chair before waving him off. She poured herself a tall glass from a decanter that sat nearby. Slowly, the remaining acolytes started to pick themselves up off the floor.

Cercee crawled to a low table and pushed herself into a chair. The acolyte who has fallen out of the circle early was moaning, the girl who had fallen after the rift was opened was being carried limp from the chamber by a large robed functionary. As far as Cercee could see, she was not breathing.

Zanien had started a cleansing rite in the center of the circle, something to be sure the rift would not open unbidden. Cercee watched him, mesmerized in her slightly dazed state. He exchanged words with the other diabolist. She snapped for her attendant and left for a side enclave, dictating her observations to him as she walked. Zanien disappeared for a moment, returning with a steaming pot and two mugs. He collected his last pupil from the floor and sat across from Cercee at the low table.

He handed her a mug and poured a generous amount.

"Tea?" she asked, hopefully.

"Not the kind you have been partaking of," he said.

Cercee blinked at him, a little surprised. He smiled at her a little without looking up from the second mug.

"Blood thistle is a crutch," he said, "Crutches are used by the weak." Cercee felt her ears turn pink. She sipped her tea in silence.

"Drink it all," he ordered the boy who sat shaking at the table. He sat nodding, but doing little else. "It seems it will fall to you, Cercee, to restore the chamber." He stared into the boy's eyes, clicked his tongue and shook his head. He stood.

"Take a little time to finish the tea, then take care of the room," he wrapped himself in a cloak and headed toward the door that led under the street and up into the Row.

"What about him?" she asked, realizing he was leaving her with the boy who was now wobbling visibly in his seat.

Zanien stopped, considered and then shrugged. "He will recover or he won't. I have a remedy if he does not."

"What kind of remedy," she asked, looking at the boy's unfocused eyes.

Zanien stopped and sighed, "Do you really have to ask?"

Cercee's face went cold and she shook her head silently as he let the matter drop, took his walking stick from where it leaned and left.

Cercee looked back at her table companion. She sipped the hot tea. It was tangy and sharp, but it did relieve the fatigue as it warmed her. The boy still sat, staring out into the air with the cup in his hand.

He wasn't actually a boy. He had to be slightly older than she, judging by the beard that was coming in on his chin. Cercee leaned a little closer to him.

"Hello?"

He didn't respond.

She looked back at where the rift had been and where ha had fallen on the floor, trying to determine what his vantage point would have been. She looked back at him.

He still sat, shaking. She leaned closer to look into his eyes.

"I wonder," she mumbled, "What did you see?"

Whether at the sound of her voice or the question she asked, Cercee could not tell, but the accolite's eyes got wide. A look of complete panic and absolute terror rushed over his face. He looked at first out into the room and then at her. Then he screamed.

It wasn't a normal sound, Cercee decided as she covered her ears, more like the warning screams of a dying rabbit.

'Stop!" she yelled over his voice. She leaned across the table and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. It didn't help. She slapped him.

He stopped. He looked at her. Suddenly, he lunged.

Cercee was glad the table was between the two of them because had it not tripped him completely he would have been on top of her. She threw up her arms and cast her most ready armour spell out of habit, but the gesture only further enraged the seemingly possessed acolyte. His eyes were glazed over and a look of unbridled malice and animal hunger replaced the look of fear on his face. He swung at her blindly.

Cercee ducked his clumsy blow, casting a simple arcane spell as a counter. To her surprise and dismay, the spell seemed to fizzle and fall short, striking the boy's chest, but dissolving around him without so much as billowing his shirt. Despite the lack of physical damage, he yelped like a wounded animal and stopped his flailing attack. Again, he started wailing like a dying rabbit. He was no longer fighting Cercee, but some unseen attacker in the air in front of him.

He will recover or he won't.

In her mind, she flew through any spell she could cast that would end this quickly. She could think of none. Everything she knew that could, would, end the accolite's life would only add to his torment in the process. She tan to the wall where a rack of blades hung. She pulled a short criss from the rack, the closest thing she could reach and turned back to face the delusional caster. A shadow bolt narrowly missed her. With as much speed and as little sound as she could, she moved behind the boy, cast a curse to slow him and in a motion she had only heard about in stories of troll attacks on stray travelers, she pulled his head back by the hair and slit his throat.

He stopped screaming. He shuttered violently and as his blood drained at a speed she'd never witnessed herself, he collapsed to the floor.

Cercee was not surprised when she opened her door to Master Zanien. He smiled broadly and leaned with both hands on his walking stick.

"Won't you invite me in, Miss Morningray?" he said, barely giving her time to step aside before walking past. He strode into the hall, looking around as he did. "What a lovely home you have."

Cercee clenched her teeth. "Would you care for some tea?" she asked.

He spun around and smiled. "That would be lovely," he said, looking for an attendant.

"I am alone this evening," she said, offering to take his walking stick and cloak.

His demeanor changed suddenly. His smile faded and he handed her his things.

"Would you still like the tea?" shje asked.

He considered. "yes."

She led him to the sitting room and excused herself to boil water. When she returned, he had made himself comfortable on a settee.

"Miss Morningray, Lady Siera informed me that you killed your compatriot after the ritual," he stated rather casually.

Cercee was surprised. She looked around as if they might be over heard. She nodded.

He sighed.

"Won't you sit?" he asked as if it was in fact his sitting room.

She complied.

"You slit his throat?" he asked. Again she nodded. "Quite bruital."

"I felt the alternative would have been more brutal," she said.

"Alternative?"

"Quickly," she said, "It needed to be done quickly." He looked at her. "Nothing I could have done to him would have ended whatever the rift did to him," she said. "It only would have prolonged it."

Zanien considered her admission and nodded. He finished his tea while she waited.

"Would you retrieve my cloak, please," he said.

Again, she complied, a little surprised that the matter seemed so easily settled.

When she returned, he pulled a small wrap from an inner pocket. He handed it to her.

"Consider it a gift," he said. "Use it well. I will see you next week. Come to my office, the chambers under the Row will likely be unavailable for a little while."

He strode to the entrance without looking at her and retrieved his walking stick.

"You knew?" she asked to his back as he left.

"No," he said. "But it was a likely outcome. You took a compassionate route. I am impressed."

Cercee looked up from the gift he had handed her. "You considered that compassionate?" she asked.

He looked back over his shoulder at her and smiled. "Given what you have already proven yourself to be capable of? I would say so." He nodded at her and smiled, returning to the air of the businessman making his rounds.

Cercee retreated back into the study before unwrapping the tidy cloth. There, strapped atop a handsome sheath, lay the criss.


End file.
